Geordie's TrystA Tale of Scottish Life by Rae, Mrs. Milne

GEORDIE'S TRYST
A TALE OF SCOTTISH LIFE.
[Attributed to Mrs. Milne Rae]
GEORDIE'S TRYST 1
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Geordie'S Tryst
[Attributed to Mrs. Milne Rae] 2

TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. GRACE CAMPBELL.
CHAPTER II. THE SEARCH.
CHAPTER III. THE FIRST SCHOLARS.
CHAPTER IV. ELSIE GRAY.
CHAPTER V. HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END.
CHAPTER VI. AND OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME.
TABLE OF CONTENTS 3
TABLE OF CONTENTS 4
CHAPTER I.
GRACE CAMPBELL.
CHAPTER I. 5
was a chilly Scotch spring day. The afternoon sun glistened with fitful, feeble rays on the windows of the old
house of Kirklands, and unpleasant little gusts of east wind came eddying round its ancient gables, and
sweeping along its broad walks and shrubberies, sending a chill to the hearts of all the young green things that
were struggling into life.
GRACE CAMPBELL. 6
On the time-worn steps of the grey mansion there stood a girl, cloaked and bonneted for a walk,
notwithstanding the uninviting weather.
"It's a fule's errand, I assure ye, Miss Grace, and on such an afternoon, too. I've been askin' at old Adam the
gardener, and he says there isna one o' the kind left worth mindin' in all the valley o' Kirklands. So do not go
wanderin' on such an errand in this bitter wind, missy."
The speaker was an old woman, standing in the doorway, glancing with an expression of kindly anxiety
towards the girl, who leant on one of the carved griffins of the old stone railing.
Grace had been looking at the speaker with troubled eyes as she listened to her remonstrance, and now she
said, meditatively, "Does old Adam really say so, Margery?" Then with a quick gesture she turned to go down
the steps, adding cheerily, "Well, there's no harm in trying, and as for the wind, that doesn't matter a bit. It's
what Walter would call a nice breezy day. I'm really going, nursie. Shut the door, and keep your old self
warm. I shall be home again by the time aunt has finished her afternoon's sleep." And Grace turned quickly
away, not in the direction of the sheltered elm avenue, but across the park, by the path which led most quickly
beyond the grounds. Presently she slackened her pace, and turning for a moment she glanced rather ruefully
towards the high walls of the old garden, as if prudence dictated that she should seek fuller information there,
before she set out on this search, which she had planned that afternoon. The old nurse's words on the subject
seemed to have sent a chilling gust to her heart, harder to bear than the bitter spring wind. Old Adam certainly
knew the countryside better than anybody else, she pondered, and he seemed to have given it as his decision
that she would not find her search successful.
Was it a rare plant growing in the valley that Grace was in search of? Then, surely, the gardener was right; she
should wait till the warm sunshine came, and the south winds wafted sweet scents about, leading to where the
pleasant flowers grow among the cozy moss. Or did she mean to go to the green velvety haughs of the
winding river to get her fishing-rod and tackle into working order at the little boat-house, and try to tempt
some unwary trout to eat his last supper, as she and her brother Walter used to do in sunny summer evenings
long ago?
These had been very pleasant days, and their lingering memories came hovering round Grace as she stood
once again among the familiar haunts, after an absence of years. Echoes of merry ringing tones, in which her
own mingled, seemed to resound through the wooded paths, where only the parching wind whistled shrilly
to-day, and a boyish voice seemed still to call impatiently under the lozenge-paned window of the old
school-room, "Gracie, Gracie, are you not done with lessons yet? Do come out and play." And how dreary
"Noel and Chapsal" used to grow all of a sudden when that invitation came, and with what relentless slowness
the hands of the old clock dragged through the lesson-hour still to run.
But the quaint old window has the shutters on it now, and the eager face that used to seek his caged playmate
through its bars is looking out on new lands from his wandering home at sea. The little girl, too, who used to
sit in the dim school-room seems to hear other voices calling to her this afternoon.
And while Grace stands hesitating whether, after all, it might be wise to go into the garden to hear what old
Adam has to say before she proceeded to the high road, we shall try to find what earnest quest sent her out this
afternoon, in spite of her old nurse's remonstrances and the east wind.
Grace Campbell's father and mother died when she was very young, and since then her home had been with
her aunt. For the last few years Miss Hume had been so infirm that she did not feel able to undertake the
journey to Kirklands, a small property in the north of Scotland, which she inherited from her father. Her
winter home was Edinburgh, and Miss Hume for some years had only ventured on a short journey to the
nearest watering-place, while her country home stood silent and deserted, with only the ancient gardener and
GRACE CAMPBELL. 7
his wife wandering about through the darkened rooms and the old garden, with its laden fruit-trees and its
flowers run to seed. But, to Grace's great delight, her aunt had announced some months before that if she felt
strong enough for the journey, she meant to go to Kirklands early in the spring. It seemed as if in her fading
autumnal time she longed to see the familiar woods and dells of her childhood's home grow green again with
returning life. So the darkened rooms had been opened to the sun again, and on the day before our story
begins, some of the former inmates had taken possession of them.
The three years during which Grace had been absent from Kirklands had proved very eventful to her in many
ways. There had been some changes in her outer life. Walter, her only brother and playmate, had left home to
go to sea. They had only had one passing visit from him since, so changed in his midshipman's dress, with his
broadened shoulders and bronzed face, and so full of sailor life and talk, that his playmate had hardly
composure of mind to discover till he was gone that the same loving heart still beat under the blue dress and
bright buttons. And while she thought of him with a new pride, she felt an undercurrent of sadness in the
consciousness that the pleasant threads of daily intercourse had been broken, and the old childish playfellow
had passed away.
But as the golden gate of childhood thus closed on Grace Campbell, another gate opened for her which led to
pleasant places. It had, indeed, been waiting open for her ever since she came into the world, though she had
often passed it by unheeded. But at last there came to Grace a glimpse of the shining light which still guides
the way of seeking souls to "yonder wicket gate." She began to feel an intense longing to enter there and begin
that new life to which it leads. She knocked, and found that it was open for her, and entering there she met the
gracious Guide who had beckoned her to come, whispering in the silence of her heart, "I am the Way, the
Truth, and the Life." Not long after Grace had begun to walk in this path, an event happened which proved to
her like the visit to the "Interpreter's House" in the Pilgrim's story; but in order to explain its full eventfulness,
we must go back to tell of earlier days in her aunt's home.
On Sunday mornings Grace usually drove with her aunt to church in decorous state. When Walter was at
home he made one of the carriage party, though generally under protest, declaring that it would be "ever so
much jollier to walk than to be bowled along in that horrid old rumble," as he used irreverently to designate
his aunt's rather antique chariot. When they arrived at church, the children followed their aunt's slow steps to
one of the pews in the gallery, where Miss Hume used to take the precautionary measure of separating them
by sending Grace to the top of the seat, and placing herself between the vivacious Walter and his playmate.
Notwithstanding this precaution, they generally contrived to find comfortable recreative resources during the
service, bringing all their inventive energy to bear on creating new diversions as each Sunday came round.
There was always their Aunt Hume's fur cloak to stroke the wrong way, if there was nothing more diverting
within reach; had it only been the cat, whose sentiments regarding a like treatment of her fur were too well
known to Walter, he felt that the pleasure would have been greater. Sometimes, indeed, the amusements were
of a strictly mental nature, conducted in the "chambers of imagery." Miss Hume would feel gratified by the
stillness of posture and the earnest gaze in her nephew's eyes. They were certainly not fixed directly on the
preacher, but surely the boy must be listening, or he would never be so quiet. Grace, however, was in the
secret, and knew better. Walter had confided to her that he had got such "a jolly make-believe" to think about
in church. The great chandelier which hung from the centre of the church ceiling, with its poles, and chains,
and brackets, was transformed in his imagination to a ship's mast and rigging, where he climbed and swung,
and performed marvellous feats, also in imagination, be it understood. And so it happened that Grace could
guess where her brother's thoughts were when he sat gazing dreamily at the huge gilded chandelier of the city
church.
Other imaginings had sometimes grown round it for Grace when it was all lit up in the short winter days at
afternoon service, and queer lights and shadows fell on the gilded cherubs that decorated it, till their wings
seemed to move and hover over the heads of the congregation. To Grace's childish mind they had been the
embodiment of angels ever since she could remember; and even long after childish things were put away there
GRACE CAMPBELL. 8
remained a strange link between her conception of angelic beings and those burnished cherubs whose serene,
shining faces looked down benignantly over the drowsy congregation on dark winter afternoons.
But all these imaginings certainly came under the catalogue of "wandering thoughts," from which the old
minister always prayed at the opening of the service that they might be delivered. So it is to be feared that the
sermon had not even the chance of the wayside seed in the parable of sinking into the children's hearts. The
words of her aunt's old minister had as yet proved little more than an outside sound to Grace, though she was
in the habit of listening more observantly than her brother. But there came a day when, amidst those familiar
surroundings, with the molten cherubs looking serenely down on her, she heard words which made her heart
burn within her, and kindled a flame which lasted as long as life.
It was on a Sunday afternoon in November, not long after Walter left. Miss Hume was ailing, and unable to go
to church, so it was arranged that Margery should accompany Grace. The old nurse attended the same church,
and Grace had been in the habit of going under her wing when her aunt was obliged to remain at home. The
walk to church through the crowded streets was a pleasant change, and Grace was in high spirits when she
ensconced herself at the top of Margery's seat—which was a much better observatory than her aunt's
pew—where every thing could be seen that was interesting and amusing within the four walls. Besides, there
were small amenities connected with a seat in nurse's pew which had great attractions for Grace when she was
a little girl, and had still a lingering charm for her. In the pew behind there sat a worthy couple, friends of
Margery, who exchanged friendly salutations with her on Sunday, always including a kindly nod of
recognition to her charges if they happened to be with her. Then, at a certain juncture in the service, the
worthy tinsmith, for that was his calling, would hand across the book-board his ancient silver snuff-box, of the
contents of which he himself partook freely and noisily. Of course, Margery only used it politely, after the
manner of a scent-bottle; and then Grace came in for her turn of it, with a warning glance from nurse to
beware of staining her hat-strings, or any other serious effects from the odorous powder. If Walter happened
to be invited to enjoy the privilege, he always contrived to secrete a deposit of the snuff between his finger
and thumb, being most anxious to imitate the tinsmith's accomplishment. He was, however, afraid to make his
first essay in church, in case of sneezing symptoms, and before he had a chance of a quiet moment to make
the experiment when they left the pew, he used generally to be caught by Margery, and summoned to put on
his glove like a gentleman, and any resistance was sure to end in the discovery and loss of the precious pinch
of snuff. Then the tinsmith's wife had also her own congenial resources for comfort during service, which she
delighted to share with her neighbours. Grace used to receive a little tap on the shoulder, and, on looking
round, a box of peppermint lozenges lay waiting her in the old woman's fat palm. These were very homely
little interchanges of friendship, but they made part of the happy childish world to Grace, and years after,
when the old pew knew her no more, and she asked admittance to it as a stranger, she glanced round in the
vain hope of catching a glimpse of the broad, shining, kindly faces of the old couple, feeling that to see them
in their place would bring back many pleasanter bygone associations than snuff and peppermint lozenges.
On this Sunday afternoon Grace perceived that there was something out of the ordinary routine in prospect.
The pews were filling more quickly than they usually did. Strangers were gathering in the passage, and a
general flutter of excitement and expectation seemed everywhere to prevail.
"What is going to happen, I wonder, Margery?" whispered Grace, impatiently; and presently the tinsmith leant
across the book-board and kindly volunteered the information that they were going to have a "strange minister
the night, and a special collection for some new-fangled thing."
And then Grace turned towards the pulpit in time to see the "strange minister," who had just entered it. He was
a tall man, of a stately though easy presence, with grace and life in every gesture. As she looked at him Grace
Campbell was reminded of an historical scene, a picture of which hung in the old hall at Kirklands, of a mixed
group of Cavaliers and Puritans. This preacher seemed in his appearance curiously to combine the varied
characteristics of both the types of men in these portraits. That graceful flexibility of tone and movement, the
GRACE CAMPBELL. 9
high forehead and waving locks, surely belong to the gallant old Cavalier, but there is something of the stern
Puritan too. The resoluteness of the firm though mobile mouth betokens a strength of moral purpose, which
does not belong to the caste of the mere court gentleman; about those delicately-cut nostrils there dwells a
possibility of quivering indignation, and in the eyes that are looking broodingly down on the congregation true
pathos and keen humour are strangely blended.
Presently the deep, flexible voice, which had the soul of music in its tones, re-echoed through the church as he
called the people to worship God, and read some verses of an old psalm. Familiar as the words were to Grace,
they seemed as he read them to have a new meaning, to be no longer seven verses with queer, out-of-the-way
expressions, that had cost her trouble to learn as a Sunday evening's task, but a beautiful, real prayer to a God
that was listening, and would hear, as the "strange minister's" voice pealed out,—
"Lord, bless and pity us,

Shine on us with Thy face;
That the earth Thy way, and nations all
May know Thy saving grace."
And when the sermon came, and the preacher began to talk in thrilling words of that saving health which the
Great Healer of souls had died to bring to all nations, Grace felt the reality of those unseen, eternal things of
which he spoke as she had never done before. Then there were interspersed with those faithful, burning words
for God beautiful illustrations from nature, which fascinated the little girl's imagination, as she sat gazing, not
at the gilded cherubs to-night, but on the benignant, earnest face of the speaker. He surely must have been a
sailor, or he could never have known so well what a storm at sea was like, she thought, as she listened,
spell-bound, feeling as if she was looking out on the angry sea, with the helpless wrecking ships tossing upon
the waves; but then in another moment he took them into the thick of some ancient battle, where the
brave-hearted "nobly conquering lived or conquering died;" or it was to some fair, pastoral scene, and then the
preacher seemed to know so well all the delights of heathery hills and pleasant mossy glades, that Grace
thought he certainly must have been at Kirklands and wandered among its woods and braes. And into each of
his wonderful photographs he wove many holy, stirring thoughts of God, and of those "ways" of his that may
be known upon the earth, of which they had been singing.
Presently the preacher began to talk of what the worthy tinsmith had called the "new-fangled scheme," for
which, he said, he stood there to plead that evening. He had come to ask help for the little outcast city
children. It was before the days when School Boards were born or thought of that this gallant-hearted man
sought to move the feelings and rouse the consciences of men on behalf of those who seemed to have no
helper. It was for aid to establish schools for those destitute children, where they might be clothed and fed as
well as educated, that he went on to plead. Grace sat entranced, listening to the preacher, as with the "flaming
swords of living words, he fought for the poor and weak." Never before in the course of her narrow, sheltered
child-life had she, even in imagination, been brought face to face with the manifold wants and woes of her
poorer brothers and sisters, or understood the service to which the Son of Man summons all his faithful
followers: "Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house?
when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?"
It seemed to Grace, when the preacher had ceased, as if a new world of loving work and of duty stretched
before her; for could she not become one of that band whom the preacher called in such thrilling words to
enroll themselves in this service of love?
When the eloquent voice paused, and the congregation began to sing again, Grace still felt the words sounding
like trumpet-notes in her heart. How she longed to ask the minister to take her to those courts and alleys, and
to tell her in what way she might best help those neglected ones. How many plans coursed through her eager
little brain for their succour. But the preacher had said he wanted money for their help; a collection was to be
GRACE CAMPBELL. 10
made before they left the church.
Grace's store of pocket-money was slender, and, moreover, was not in her pocket now. How gladly would she
have emptied her little silken purse, if she had only had it with her; but, alas! it lay uselessly in her drawer at
home. Her conventional penny had been put into the plate at the door, as she came into church, and Grace
thought ruefully that she had nothing—nothing to give to help these poor forsaken ones, whose hard lot had so
touched her heart. Just then, however, she happened to raise her hand to her neck, and was reminded of an
ornament which she always wore, the only precious thing she possessed. It was an old-fashioned locket, with
rows of pearls round it, and in the centre a baby lock of her own hair, which her mother used to wear. Her
Aunt Hume had some time ago taken it out of the old jewel-case which awaited her when Grace was old
enough to be trusted with its contents, and given it to her to wear, so it was her very own. But was not this a
worthy occasion for bringing of one's best and most precious things? Might not this pearl locket help to bring
some little outcast waif into paths of pleasantness and peace? Yes, the locket should be given to the special
collection, Grace resolved; but it might not be wise, to divulge the intention to Margery, who had already
replied, when she was asked by Grace if she could lend her any money, that nobody would expect a collection
from such a young lady.
When the crowd moved away from the passage, and began to scatter, Margery and her charge left the old pew
in the highest gallery and prepared to go down the great staircase which led to the entrance door. Near the
door there stood two elders of the church, with metal plates in their hands, waiting for the offerings of the
congregation. Grace had been holding hers tightly in her hand, having untied it from her neck and slipped the
ribbon in her pocket, and now she laid it gently among the silver, and the pennies, and the Scotch bank-notes,
hoping that it might slip unobserved between one of the crumpled notes, and so escape the detective glance of
Margery's quick eyes. But her hope was vain. Nurse caught sight of the pearls gleaming pure and white
among the other offerings: "Missy, what have you done? Your locket! your mamma's beautiful pearl locket!
Did I ever see the like? It's a mistake, sir. Miss Campbell could not have meant it," she said, turning to the
elder, with her hand raised to recapture it.
"Stop, Margery, it is not a mistake; I meant to put it there," replied Grace in an eager whisper, as she pulled
her nurse's shawl, glancing timidly at the elder, as if she feared he was going to conspire with Margery, and
that, after all, her offering would be rejected.
"Missy! are you mad? What will your aunt say? Really, sir, will you be so kind?"—and Margery did not finish
her sentence, but looked piteously at the elder, who was glancing at the little girl with a kindly, though
questioning expression in his eyes, saying presently:
"You may have your locket back, if you wish it, my child. Perhaps you have given it hastily, and may regret it
afterwards, and we would not like to have your jewel in these circumstances."
"Oh, thank you, sir," Margery was beginning to say, in a grateful tone, when Grace interrupted her.
"No, please don't, sir, I will not take it back. It was my very own, and I have given it to God, to use for these
poor, sad boys and girls," Grace added, in a tremulous tone.
Then the old elder looked at Margery, and said, "My friend, I cannot help you further. Neither you nor I have
anything to do with this gift; it is between the giver and the Receiver."
There was something solemn in his tone which kept the still indignant Margery from saying more, and she
prepared to move away with her charge. But, as she turned to go, she caught a glimpse of her acquaintance the
tinsmith, who was in the act of dropping into the plate a crumpled Scotch bank-note, which he held in his
broad palm.
GRACE CAMPBELL. 11
"Bless me, they're all going daft together," muttered Margery, with uplifted hands, as she hurried away. "It
was a very good discourse, no doubt, but to think of folk strippin' themselves like that—a pun'-note, forsooth,
near the half of the week's work; the man's gone clean demented."
But the tinsmith's serene, smiling face showed no sign of any aberration of intellect, and Margery took Grace's
hand, and hurried her through the crowd, resolved that she should not, for another instant, stand by and
countenance such reckless expenditure.
Grace was conscious that her old nurse was still possessed by a strong feeling of disapproval regarding her
donation, so she rather avoided conversation; besides, she had a great deal to think about as she walked along
the crowded lamp-lit streets by Margery's side.
At last they reached the quiet square where Miss Hume lived, and as they crossed the grass-grown pavement
and went up the steps to the house, Grace glanced up to the curtained window of her aunt's sitting-room, and
suddenly remembered, with a feeling of discomfort, that Miss Hume must presently be told of the destination
of her locket; if not by herself, certainly by Margery, who had just heaved a heavy sigh, and was evidently
girding herself up for the painful duty of narrating the strange behaviour of her charge.
"Now, Margery, I'm going to auntie, to tell her about the locket, this very minute, so you need not trouble
about it," said Grace, as she ran quickly upstairs to her aunt's room and closed the door.
Margery never knew exactly what passed, nor how Miss Hume's well-regulated mind was ever reconciled to
such an impulsive act on the part of her niece. But, as she sat at her usual post by the old lady next day, while
she took her afternoon's rest, Miss Hume said rather unexpectedly, when Margery concluded she was asleep,
"Margery, you remember my sister? Does it not strike you that Miss Campbell is getting very like her mother?
These children are a great responsibility to me; I wish their mother had been spared," she added, rather
irrelevantly, it seemed to Margery, and then presently she fell asleep without any reference to the locket
question.
But that night, when Grace was going to bed, she told her old nurse that her aunt had promised that when they
went back to Kirklands again she might try to find some little boys and girls to teach, and that she would
allow her to have one of the old rooms for her class. She did not tell how eagerly she had asked that, in the
meantime, she might be allowed to try and help the neglected city children, to whose necessities she had been
awakened by such thrilling words that day, though Miss Hume had thought it wise to restrain her impatience.
But out of that evening's events had grown the cherished plan which sent Grace on such a chilly afternoon
among the woods and braes of Kirklands to seek any boy or girl who might need her help and friendship.
GRACE CAMPBELL. 12
THE SEARCH
iss Hume, Grace's aunt, left the management of Kirklands entirely in the hands of her
business agent. Mr. Graham met the tenants, gathered the rents, arranged the leases, and directed the
improvements without even a nominal interference on her part. And certainly he conscientiously performed
these duties with a view to his client's interests. It may be wondered that Miss Hume did not take a more
personal interest in her tenants, but various things had contributed to this state of matters. Indeed, she was
now so infirm that it would have been difficult for her to take any active interest in things around her,
especially as it had not been the habit of her earlier years to do so.
It was her younger sister, Grace's mother, who used to know all the dwellers in the valley so well that her
white pony could calculate the distance to the pleasant farmyard at which he would get his next mouthful of
crisp corn; or the muirland cottage, with its delicious bit of turf, where he would presently graze, as he waited
for his young mistress, while she talked to the inmates. But if the little girl with her white pony could have
come back again to Kirklands, they would have missed many a familiar face, and searched in vain for many a
THE SEARCH 13
cottage. The pleasant little thatched dwellings, with velvety tufts of moss studding the roof, and pretty
creepers climbing till they mingled with the brown thatch, telling of the inmates' loving fingers, were all swept
away now, and in the place that once knew them, stretched trim drills of turnips, fenced by grim stone walls,
to which time had not yet given a moss-covered beauty.
Mr. Graham had thought it wise for his client's interests to remove those little "crofts," and merge their
kailyards into productive fields; so the dwellers in the greensward cottages had to wander townwards to seek
shelter and work in city courts and alleys. The land was now divided into a few farms, on which stood
imposing-looking houses, with knockers and latch-keys to the doors, where the little girl and the white pony
would never have ventured to ask admittance, or cared to gain it--where "nobody wanted nothin' from
nobody," old Adam, the gardener, had assured Margery, when she made anxious inquiries concerning the
prospect of Grace's search, and who hoped that this circumstantial information might persuade her young
mistress to abandon it.
The prophecy that it was "a fule's errand" rang unpleasantly in Grace's ear, as she crossed the park and
climbed the rustic stiles which led to the high road. It was true she knew that during the last three years there
had been many a "clearance" at Kirklands, for she remembered having overheard Mr. Graham congratulating
her aunt on the larger returns owing to these improvements. But surely, she thought, there might still be found
some little cottages like those to which she heard her mamma was so fond of going when she was a girl.
Walter and she used certainly, she remembered, often to see children with bare, dust-stained feet on the road,
when they happened to go beyond the grounds on a fishing expedition, or down with their aunt through her
lands; but her brother had been an all-sufficient playmate, and Grace's interest in the peasant children did not
extend beyond a glance of curiosity. But now how gladly would she gather a little company of them to tell
them that old sweet story, which had come to her own heart with such new strange sweetness, during these
winter days, though she had heard it ever since she could remember. Grace hurried eagerly along the high
road, looking at every turn for traces of any lowly wayside dwellings. There used to be a little clump of
cottages here, she thought, as she stopped at a bend of the road where there were traces of recent demolitions,
and a great field of green corn was evidently going to reclaim the waste place, and presently swallow it up.
Behind where the vanished cottages had stood there stretched a glade of birch-trees, with their low twisted
stems rising from little knolls of turf so mossy and steep, that the drills of turnips and potatoes could not
possibly be ranged there without destroying their symmetry, even though the crooked birch-trees were to be
swept away.
Grace wandered among the budding trees, and through the soft springy turf that was growing green again in
spite of the bitter spring winds, but she found no little native lurking among the birches, and was disappointed
to come to the other side of the wood much more quickly than she expected, without the détour being of any
practical use.
The turf sloped away to a little stream that went singing cheerily over sparkling pebbles, bubbling and
foaming round the base of grey lichened rocks, that reared their heads above the water, as if in angry
remonstrance at their daring to interfere with its progress. On the opposite bank there stretched a bit of
muirland pasture, studded with little knolls of heather, growing green, in preparation for its richer autumn
tints. The pale spring sunlight began to grow more mellow in its light at this afternoon hour; it glinted on the
little gurgling stream, lighted up the feathery birch glade, and lay in golden patches on the opposite bank,
where Grace noticed some cattle begin to gather on the heathery knolls, as if they had come to enjoy the last
hour of bright sunshine. Perhaps some little cottages may be sheltered behind those hillocks, Grace thought;
and she began to examine how the grey rocks lay among the water, and whether she could possibly find dry
footing across the stream. Presently she came upon a smooth row of stones, that were evidently used as a
thoroughfare. She had already begun to cross them, keeping her eye cautiously fixed on the stepping-stones as
she went along, when she was startled by a voice which sounded close beside her. On glancing round she saw
on the opposite bank a boy standing with a huge twisted cudgel in his hand, brandishing it in a warlike
THE SEARCH 14
attitude. He seemed to have suddenly appeared round one of the hillocks, and was now shouting excitedly, in
his rough northern dialect, as he waved his stick:
"Hold back, mem; hold back, I tell ye. Blackie is in one o' his ill moods the day, and he's no safe. Dinna come
a foot farther."
Grace stood bewildered, balancing herself on the stepping-stones; the apparition was so sudden that it almost
took away her breath, and the commands were so peremptory that she did not dare to disregard them by going
forward; but it seemed very hard to beat an ignominious retreat, for here seemed to be just what she was in
search of—a boy as neglected-looking as any that were to be seen in the courts and alleys of Edinburgh; of the
very type which old Adam declared there was not one to be found in all the lands of Kirklands. His head was
bare, and his flaxen hair so bleached by the sun that it looked quite white against his bronzed face. He looked
at Grace with a grave interest in his large blue eyes, as if he would like to know a little more; but he still
brandished his cudgel before her, and shouted resolutely:
"Hold back, or Blackie will be at ye."
"But who is Blackie?" asked Grace, with a gasp, looking furtively round in the direction of the birch wood, in
case the said Blackie might be approaching from behind.
"Who's Blackie!" said the boy, repeating the question, as if to hold up to ridicule the absurd ignorance which
it implied. "Do ye no ken that Blackie is Gowrie's bull—the ill-natertest bull in a' the country-side?"
"And what have you to do with Blackie?" asked Grace, glancing across to the hillocks, where some cattle
grazed inoffensively, in search of the formidable animal.
"I herd him—I'm Gowrie's herd-laddie. They're all terrible easy-managed beasts but him, and he's full o' ill
tricks. He can't bear woman-folks," added the boy, with a slight mischievous twinkle in his eye; for he felt
more at his ease now, having assured himself that Blackie was much too intent on some sweet blades of grass
to give any trouble at that moment.
"Gowrie! that's the old farm down in the hollow there, isn't it? And how long have you been herding?" asked
Grace, who still stood on the stepping-stones, and pursued the conversation with the noisy little stream
babbling round her.
"I was hired to Gowrie two year come Marti'mas, and afore that I herded some sheep on the hill yonder. We
had a hut all to oursels. I slept wi' them a' night, and liked them terrible weel, a hantle better than the cattle,"
and his eye wandered regretfully to a bleak mountain slope, which had evidently pleasant associations for the
little herd-boy.
"Did you ever go to school?" asked Grace, anxious to introduce her subject, for she thought she would like
this boy for a scholar.
"Ay, did I once, when I was a wee laddie. I was in the 'Third Primer,' and could read pretty big words," and he
fumbled in his jacket-pocket for the collection of dog-eared leaves which represented his store of learning.
"Of course you can't go to school now on week days, when you have to watch the cows; but perhaps you go to
Sunday-school?" Grace asked; and will it make her desire to do good appear very narrow and small, if it must
be confessed that she hoped to hear that he did not go to any? Her mind was soon set at rest, however, for he
presently replied:
THE SEARCH 15
"The school at the kirk, ye mean? No; granny's dreadful deaf, and we don't go to the kirk. I belong to Gowrie
a' the week, but I'm granny's on Sabbath; there's aye a deal to do, brakin' sticks and mendin' up things, ye see."
"And you really don't go to a Sunday-school?" exclaimed Grace, hardly able to restrain her satisfaction at this
piece of information. "But, by-the-by, I have never asked your name. I should like to hear it, because I hope
we are going to be friends."
"They call me Geordie Baxter," he replied, as he ran to check the wanderings of one of the cows, while Grace
stood watching him, as she pondered how she might best frame an invitation asking him to be her scholar. He
seemed so manly and independent, though he was so young; and, somehow, it was all so different from how
she had planned her finding of scholars. She had been looking for a cottage where the tattered children might
be crawling about the doorstep, making mudpies and quarrelling with each other; and then she thought she
would knock at the door, after she had spoken to them for a little, and ask their mother if she might have them
to teach on Sunday. But this boy, ignorant and neglected as he seemed to be, had certainly a manly dignity
which made Grace's invitations more difficult than she expected; though, after all, he could only spell words
of one syllable, and he went neither to school nor to church. Surely he was the sort of scholar she had been in
search of. So when he returned to his former position opposite the stepping-stones, after having admonished
the straying cow—
"Well, Geordie, I am going to ask you if you will come to Kirklands, where I live, on Sunday afternoons; and
since you do not go to any school, I can read a little to you, and perhaps help you to learn something?" said
Grace, not venturing to be more explicit on what she wished to teach. "Do you think you would like to come?"
"Ay, would I," he replied, eagerly. "I'm terrible anxious to learn to read the long words without spellin' them."
And then he stopped and looked hesitatingly at Grace. "Would ye take Jean, I wonder?" he said, coming a few
steps on the stones in his eagerness. "She's my sister, and a good bit littler than me, and she can't read any, but
I'm thinkin' she could learn," he added, in a sanguine tone.
"Oh yes, certainly; I shall be so happy if you will bring your sister," replied Grace, looking radiant, for she
had; ust been thinking that though Geordie was certainly a very valuable unit, he could hardly, in his own
person, make the "Sunday class" on which she had set her heart.
"But I thought ye couldn't bear poor folk at Kirklands," said Geordie, reflectively, glancing at Grace, after he
had pondered over the invitation. "Granny's aye frightened they will be takin' our housie from us, as they have
done from so many puir folk;" and then the boy stopped suddenly, and a deep red flush rose under his bronzed
cheek as he remembered that he must be speaking to one of those same "Kirklands folk."
"Oh, your grandmother needn't be afraid of that. I am sure my aunt would not wish to take away her home,"
replied Grace, hurriedly, also flushing with vexation, and resolving that she would certainly listen with more
interest, if she happened to be present at the next interview, to Mr. Graham's narratives concerning the
improvements, seeing that they seemed to involve the improving away of the natives off the face of the
country.
Just then the sound of a horn came across the heather, and Geordie started off, saying, "There's Gowrie's horn
sounding; I must away and gather home the kye." And he darted off across the hillocks in search of his
scattered charges, giving a succession of whoops and shrieks as he brandished his cudgel and whirled about in
the discharge of his duty, quite ignoring Grace, who still stood on the stepping-stones, feeling rather sorry that
the interview had terminated so abruptly, for she remembered a great many questions she would like to have
asked.
THE SEARCH 16
Presently Geordie, by dint of his exertions, managed to arrange the cattle, with the formidable Blackie in
front, in quite an orderly procession, and he now prepared to move towards the farm, whose white gables were
visible from the pasture. He never looked back at Grace, or gave any parting sign of recognition of her
presence, and she began to fear that perhaps after all he might forget about her invitation and fail to appear on
Sunday.
"You won't forget to come to Kirklands on Sunday afternoon, Geordie?" she called after him, trying to raise
her voice above the noisy little stream.
"Didna I say that I would come and bring Jean? and I aye keep my trysts," he shouted back again, with a look
of indignant astonishment that she should have imagined him capable of forgetting or failing to keep his
promise; and then he trudged away cheerily, swinging his stick, more full of the idea of this "tryst" than Grace
could guess, though his mind dwelt chiefly on the thought of what a grand thing it would be for little Jean to
get a chance of learning to read. He was painfully conscious that he had signally failed in his attempts to teach
her, and he was the only teacher she had ever had.
In this little, unkempt, sun-bleached herd-boy there dwelt a very tender, chivalrous heart, and on his little
sister Jean all his wealth, of affection had as yet been bestowed. Never did faithful knight serve his lady-love
more devotedly than Geordie had this little brown maiden, since her earliest babyhood.
They were orphans, and ever since they could remember their home had been with their grandmother, a frail,
dreamy old woman, so deaf that the most active and varied gesticulation was the only means of conveying to
her the remotest idea of what one wished to say. Geordie, indeed, was the only person sufficiently careless of
his lungs to attempt the medium of speech, and then his conversation was pitched in the same key as when he
performed his herding functions.
To the little Jean, Geordie had been playmate and protector in one, her absolute slave from the time she sat on
her old grandmother's knee, and, tiring of that position, lisped out, "Deordie, Deordie," holding out her little
brown hands so that he might take her, and then they would sit together on the earthen floor of the cottage,
and the gipsy locks would intermingle with Geordie's flaxen hair, which yielded meekly to as rough treatment
from the little brown fingers as ever hapless terrier of the nursery was called on to undergo. But Geordie's
sun-bleached locks had always been at her service, and his head and hands too; though it was not much that
the little herd-boy had been able to do for his sister. Often as he lay on the heather, watching his cows, he
smiled with delight as he thought of the time when he should be promoted into a farm servant, with wages
enough to send Jean to school, and to buy her a pretty print dress, all dotted with blue stars, like the one
Mistress Gowrie wore. As yet all his earnings had gone to pay board to his grandmother, and for present
necessities in the shape of shoes and corduroys. He had in one of his pockets a little chamois bag, containing a
few shillings, which he always carried about with him; and it was one of his recreations to spread them on one
of the flat, grey stones and count the silver pieces as they glittered in the sun. He knew well what he meant to
do with them when the pile grew large enough; but its growth was a very slow one, and required much
self-denial on Geordie's part, seeing that the component parts of each shilling were generally gathered in a
stray penny now and then, which he earned by holding a market-going farmer's cob; and if, by a rare chance, a
sixpence happened to be the unexpected result of one such service, then Geordie felt that he was really getting
rich, and would soon be able to buy what he had wished for so long. It was not anything for himself, or even
for Jean, as might have been expected. Somebody had once told him that if his grandmother only had an
ear-trumpet she would be able to hear people when they spoke to her. Geordie had the vaguest idea of what
such an instrument might be like, but decided that probably it bore some resemblance in size or sound to the
horn that summoned his cows home; and having ascertained how much money it would cost, he resolved that
he would buy one for his granny whenever he could save the sum.
THE SEARCH 17
The boy's heart was full of tender pity for the old deaf woman, with her weird helpless ways, at whose side he
had grown since his infancy; though she could hardly have been said to "bring him up," for Granny Baxter
had been shiftless and unlovable when she was in possession of her faculties, and her character had not
improved under her trying infirmities. Her grandson, however, always treated her with a tender patience
which no querulousness of the old woman could weary. Not so little Jean. Only once she could remember her
brother looking very grave and grieved, and it was one day when she had refused to do something that the old
woman wanted, and put her in a white heat of passion by her rebellion. Having escaped beyond the reach of
her poor granny's tottering feet, and, finding her way to the field where Geordie was herding, she began to
narrate her story in triumph, when her brother's grave silence made her feel how naughty she had been. After
that day little Jean always tried to "mind" granny more, though she never attained to the same unwearied
service as Geordie.
That Jean's education was being sadly neglected her brother felt painfully, and he had made various efforts to
teach her the little he knew himself; but the knowledge contained in the "Third Primer" barely sufficed for
teaching purposes, and Geordie found, moreover, that the little Jean was by no means an apt scholar. Indeed,
the most hopeless confusion continued to prevail in her small mind concerning the letters of the alphabet,
notwithstanding all his efforts. The natural history lessons, however, had been a greater success; she had
learnt from Geordie the names of most trees and flowers that grew wild in the valley, and knew the difference
between a wagtail and a wren, which some people who know their alphabet do not. Geordie sometimes
thought that it might be nice for Jean to go to the kirk, for it was from Jean's point of view that he looked at
most things in life. But then there was the insuperable difficulty about Sunday clothes, so the idea had always
been given up after due consideration each time it presented itself to his mind, and the church-going was
reserved for that golden period when Jean would be clothed in the blue-starred print frock, and he should have
a suit of Sunday clothes. Perhaps, with the encouragement of the ear-trumpet, even frail granny might be
conducted to church, Geordie thought, hopefully, for he knew that she had the essentials of church-going, as
they presented themselves to his mind, stowed away in an ancient chest-of-drawers where she kept her
valuables.
But in the interval, and while these happy days of good wages and schooling for Jean and Sunday clothes still
lay in the distance, this invitation to go to the house of Kirklands to be taught on Sunday afternoon was very
delightful indeed, Geordie thought, as he trudged home with dust-stained feet, carrying his shoes slung across
his shoulders, to pay an evening visit to his granny, eager to tell Jean about the interview with the young lady
and of the invitation. He knew the news would be welcome to his grandmother also, for it had been one of her
standing grievances ever since he could remember that next rent day Mr. Graham would be sure to give her
notice to quit. And, indeed, if the truth must be told, it was owing to Geordie's own useful and reliable
qualities that the little household had not long ago been told to move on, and to make way for more
money-making tenants. Farmer Gowrie was one of the oldest residents on the estate, and he had frequently, as
he used daily to inform Granny Baxter, put in a good word for her with the agent, and begged him to let the
little cottage stand during the old woman's lifetime; for where could he get a boy like Geordie at the same
money, as he remarked to his wife, so handy, so careful, so fearless of Blackie, "the ill-natertest bull in all the
country-side," who, under his guidance, was meek as a lamb.
But notwithstanding Gowrie's assurances that their home was safe, Geordie knew that his grandmother would
be very much pleased to know, if he could make her understand the fact, that he had, that afternoon, talked
with a lady from the "big hoose" itself. She seemed kind and "pleasant-spoken," and not at all the terrible ogre
that Geordie always imagined the lady of Kirklands to be. As the rent day came round, and he went to the
inn-parlour where the agent sat to receive the rents, he used to lay the money on the table and then turn away
quickly with a beating heart, in case granny's oft-repeated prophecy should prove true, and the dreaded notice
to quit should really be coming at last. But instead of any such terrible communication, after he had stood the
penetrating glance of the bald-headed factor, a kindly nod used generally to follow, and presently Geordie was
galloping home at the top of his speed to assure his grandmother that there was no word of "a flittin'" this
THE SEARCH 18
Martinmas. And now he felt that their home was more secure than ever, for had not the lady said that she was
sure nobody wanted to turn them out of it?
Geordie's chief source of delight during his walk home was the thought of what a pleasant outing the walk to
Kirklands would be for Jean, for there were many things within the lodge gates that she had heard of and
would like to see. Perhaps they might get a glimpse of the walled-in garden as they passed, which Geordie had
heard of from his master, who was a friend of old Adam the gardener, and had been sometimes invited by him
to take a turn through his domain. But the happiest thought of all was, that, perhaps, Jean might get more
interested in her alphabet when the young lady taught her. He resolved that he must not forget to take the
"Third Primer" with him, for it was possible that the young lady might not exactly understand what they
needed to be taught; for, after all, she did not look so very old, he pondered, as he compared her appearance
with Mistress Gowrie's, the one grown specimen of the female sex, except his grandmother, who made up his
small world.
THE SEARCH 19
THE FIRST SCHOLARS
race Campbell hurried home with not less eagerness than her future scholar, to tell the news
of her expedition at Kirklands. Her Aunt Hume was only half awakened from her afternoon nap, and glanced
with dropsy eyes at the glowing face, as she listened to her niece's description of how and where she had
found Geordie.
"Baxter! I do not remember that name; I must ask Mr. Graham who they are, and all about them, nest time he
comes," said Miss Hume, after Grace had finished her eager narration, and stood twirling her hat in her hand,
hesitating whether she should tell her aunt Geordie's impression of what sort of people the "Kirklands folk"
were; but just at that moment tea was brought, and on reflection, Grace resolved that, for the present, it would
be wise to keep silent on that point. Two days passed quickly, and Sunday afternoon found Grace hovering
about the door of the little room which her aunt had given to her for her class. She had been seated in state at a
table which Margery had placed for her, at what the old nurse considered a suitable angle of distance from the
form arranged for the scholars; but Grace began to think it felt rather formidable to be waiting seated there, so
she gathered up the books again, and wandered between the avenue and the little room, waiting with
impatience the arrival of her first scholars, and having a vague fear lest they might not be forthcoming after
all.
Meanwhile, Geordie and his little sister were toiling along the dusty highway in an excited, expectant state of
mind. The shady elm avenue was a refreshing change after the hot white turnpike road. Geordie looked keenly
about him, noting all the well-kept walks and shrubberies, among which he saw many plants that were not
natives of the valley, and thought he should like, sometime, to examine them more closely.
At last they came in sight of the grey gables of the old mansion, and little Jean grasped her brother's hand
more closely, and looked up with a frightened glance at the many windows, which seemed to her like so many
great eyes all staring at her. She began to wish that she was safe back in her granny's cottage again, but
consoled herself by thinking that as long as she had hold of Geordie's hand nothing very dreadful could
possibly happen. Geordie, too, was somewhat overawed by the nearer view of the "big hoose," which
certainly seemed much more formidable in its dimensions than it did from the moorland, where he used to get
a glimpse of it while he watched the sheep, and then it looked no larger than the grey cairn which he made his
watch-tower, but now it seemed to frown above him, and the windows, too, began to create uncomfortable
sensations in his mind as well as Jean's.
With the sight of his friend of the stepping-stones, his flagging courage returned, for had he not conversed
with her on his own domain, and been invited by her to pay this visit?
"This is Jean," he said, immediately looking up at Grace with his frank smile, as he gave his sister a little push
forward.
"I have kept my tryst, ye see. You thought, maybe, I wouldna mind," he added, smiling again at the absurdity
of the idea that he should forget such an eventful engagement. "I am so very glad to see you, Geordie, and
Jean, too. I must say I was a little afraid that you might forget to come," added Grace, quite in a flutter of
THE FIRST SCHOLARS 20

delight over the arrival of her scholars, which they little dreamt of. Then she happened to glance at Jean, who
stood clutching her brother's corduroys in a very frightened attitude, and Grace remembered that this was also
a new experience for the scholars, and perhaps they, too, might be suffering from the nervousness which had
been following her from the lawn to the class-room for the last hour as she waited for them.
Putting out her hand to Jean, she said, in an encouraging tone, "Come, I dare say you must be tired after your
walk in this hot afternoon. We shall go to a little room that my aunt has given us to sit in, and see if we cannot
find something nice to read and learn," and Grace led the way up the old steps and across the hall, then
through what appeared to the children quite a bewildering maze of dark passages, so dim and sombre after the
bright sunshine, that Grace overheard Jean say in an, abrupt whisper, which was instantly smothered by her
brother, "I'm afraid, Geordie; I'm no gain' farther upon this dark road."
At last the little company reached the room that had been assigned to them. It was the old still-room, but it had
been long in disuse, and was scarcely less dim than the passages which led to it. The high narrow window
only admitted a few slanting rays of sunlight, that danced on the white vaulted roof, which was queerly curved
and arched by the windings of a narrow staircase above. It looked, however, none the less an imposing
chamber to Geordie, who instinctively drew off his cap as he came in from the sunny glare of the fresh spring
day to its semi-darkness.
Then Jean, who had decided that the best code of manners was to watch what Geordie did, and follow
implicitly, began to pull the strings of her little bonnet, to remove it from her head. It had been a present from
Mistress Gowrie on New Year's Day, and this was the first occasion on which Jean had worn it, though it had
often been taken from its resting-place in a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, and viewed with complacency.
To-day, when it came to be-tied, she had to apply to Geordie, her unfailing help in all extremities; and he in
his efforts to make an imposing bow like the one which decorated Mistress Gowrie's ample chin, had knotted
the strings after the manner of whipcord, so that they required all Grace's ingenuity to disentangle them.
Presently, after all these preliminaries were satisfactorily accomplished, the young teacher seated herself at the
table, and began, to fumble nervously among the books which she had brought to use. There was a little
story-book that Walter and she used to like long ago, in which she thought would be nice to read to them, and
her mother's Bible, in which she had been searching all the morning for what might be best to choose as the
first lesson, having selected and rejected a great many parables and incidents both in the New and Old
Testaments, and was even now doubtful what they should begin to read.
The sight of the books reminded Geordie of his pocket compendium of knowledge, and coming to the table he
laid the dog-eared "Third Primer" in Grace's hand, saying, "I've been once through, but I'm thinkin' I've maybe
forgot it some. I doubt Jean doesna know one letter from another, though I've whiles tried to make her
understand," added Geordie, rather ruefully, as he glanced towards the smiling little maiden, who sat quite
unabashed at this account of her ignorance.
Grace was rather taken aback by the sight of the spelling-book, and also by Geordie's statement as to the
amount of his knowledge, though it was the same as he had made at their first interview. Grace, however, in
her eagerness, had not understood its full import, so she gasped out in some dismay, "But you can read the
Bible a little, can you not, Geordie?"
"Maybe I might, if I tried," replied Geordie, in a hopeful tone. "They were just goin' to put me into the Bible
when I left the school. I have heard them reading out some of the stories, and I thought they wouldn't be that
difficult to spell out. Maybe if I read in the primer for a while, ye'll put me into the Bible," he added, evidently
having a strong idea of the necessity for a good foundation of spelling-book lore before proceeding to use it.

But Grace thought ruefully of all her high-flown plans for this Sunday class, and felt that it was a terrible
descent to be restricted to the "Third Primer." But Geordie seemed convinced that through this dog-eared
volume lay the only royal road to learning. He had already opened the book at one of the little lessons near the
end which he seemed to think he had not sufficiently mastered in the "schoolin' days" already far away in the
distance to the little herd-boy. He still stood by Grace's side at the table, and his finger travelled slowly along
the page as he read, in the nasal sing-song tone in which the reading functions were performed at the parish
school, one of those meaningless little paragraphs that are supposed to be best adapted by the compilers of
primers for teaching the young idea how to shoot.
Grace sat listening, rather perplexed as to what course it would be best to pursue. This certainly was not the
kind of ideal Sunday-class which she had in her mind all these months; indeed, this "Third Primer" was hardly
orthodox food for Sunday at all, according to her ideas; and yet Geordie was laboriously travelling over the
page with a dogged earnestness which she did not know how to divert into any other channel without doing
harm in some shape or other. But presently help came to her from a quarter where she had least expected it.
Jean, who had been seated on the form unnoticed for several minutes, listening to Geordie's earnest but
uninteresting sing-song, as he stood at the table leaning over his lesson-book, got tired of her neglected
situation, and descending from her high seat, she planted her sturdy little legs on the floor, saying, in a
decided tone, as she stumped away towards the door, "Geordie, I'm tired sittin' here. I'm away home." Jean's
words fell like a thunderbolt both on Geordie and Grace. The blood mounted to the boy's face, and his earnest
blue eyes turned anxiously towards the young teacher, to see what she was thinking of such an utter breach of
good manners on Jean's part.


Poor Grace felt bitterly conscious of sudden and terrible failure in this work which she had so longed to
undertake. She had not been able to interest one scholar for a quarter of an hour, and the other seemed only to
have his heart set on learning to spell. "But it is not quite time to go home yet, Jean," she faltered, as she
watched the little girl's efforts to open the door, since Geordie did not seem inclined to come to her assistance.
"Indeed, we haven't really begun yet," continued Grace. "Come, Jean, would you not like to stay a little longer
and hear a story from the Bible before you go? Geordie used to like them at school, he says;" and then, turning
to the boy, who stood looking in grave reproving silence at Jean, she said, "Besides, Geordie, I think, perhaps,
I did not quite explain to you the other day what I thought we should try to learn on Sunday afternoons when
you come here. I shall be very glad to help you with spelling, too, you know, but I thought I should like to tell
you something about the Lord Jesus Christ our Saviour, and to read some of his wonderful words which we
find in the New Testament. You have heard of him, have you not, Geordie?"
"Oh, ay, I'm thinkin' I have. But it was in the Auld Testament they were readin' when I was at the school. I
mind there was a right fine story about a herd-laddie killin' a big giant, that one o' the laddies telt me once.
You've heard it many a time from me, Jean."
"Ah, yes, I know that story too," Grace replied, brightening, as if a glimmer of light had come to her in her
perplexity. "And if you will listen, I can tell you another story—about a Shepherd, too. I'm sure you would
like it, if you would only come back for a little and listen, Jean," said Grace, eagerly.
She did not venture to open the Bible, in case the little girl should think the book would imply another course
of spelling, and be roused into immediate flight. Abandoning all her carefully arranged plans for teaching
which she had been thinking of for so long, she looked into Geordie's eyes, which were still wandering
hungrily towards the unconquered pages of the primer, and began to tell of the Shepherd who watched the
hundred sheep in a wilderness far away in a very hot country, where the burning sun dried up the streams and
withered the pasture, and where it was very difficult to find food for either man or beast. And then she told of
how very wise and tender this Shepherd was with his flock, looking after their wants day and night, and taking
very special care of the silly, play-loving lambs, who did not guess what terrible dangers they might fall into;
for there were wild beasts prowling about, ready to pounce upon them, and rushing torrents that came
suddenly from the hillsides in rainy seasons, which would have drowned them in a minute, if the Shepherd's
watchful eye had not been there. He knew all their names, too, though sheep are so wonderfully like each
other."
"Did he though?" exclaimed Geordie. "He must have more wit than Gowrie's shepherd, then. He has been wi'
them for more than a year now, and I dinna think he knows the one from the other so well as I do."
Little Jean seemed to have abandoned her design of immediately returning home, and was gradually edging
nearer the table, with her twinkling black eyes fixed on Grace.
"But I was going to tell you what happened to one of the little lambs in spite of the Shepherd's watchful care,"
Grace continued, feeling inspirited by the growing interest of her audience.
"Eh, but I hope none o' the wild beasts ye spoke o' got hold of it," said Geordie, drawing a long breath.
"Well, there's no saying what might have happened, but for the Good Shepherd. For the little lamb got
lost—lost among bleak, sandy hills, where it could find no green blade to eat, and got very hungry and
footsore. It could hear no kind shepherd's voice that it used to love to listen to in happier days, but only
terrible sounds like the bark of wolves, coming nearer, and lions prowling about when it began to get dark."
"Puir lambie!" murmured Jean, whose face now rested on her little fat hands, while, leaning on the table, she
looked up in Grace's face; "it must surely ha'e been very frightened," she added, in a compassionate tone; for

she knew that she did not like to cross the turf in front of the cottage, after dark, without Geordie's protecting
hand.
"Yes, it surely must have been frightened enough, for it was certainly in great danger, and the Shepherd knew
what a terrible plight it must be in, wandering about tired and hungry, far away from the fold. For what do you
think he did?" Grace continued, looking at Geordie; "he actually left all the other sheep —the ninety-nine, you
know—in the wilderness, and went away to seek for this poor little silly lost lamb."
"Did he though! He must have been a real fine man," responded Geordie, warmly. "There's Gowrie's shepherd
lost a wee lambie among the hills not lang syne, and when Gowrie asked him, when he came home, why he
didna look about among the heather for it, he said he couldn't leave the rest, and that it was a puir sick beastie
no' worth much trouble. But it was a nice wee thing for a' that, and it must have died all alone there, with
nobody to give it a drop of water," said Geordie, regretfully, for he had a tender heart for all dumb creatures.
"I must tell Gowrie's lad about this Shepaerd the very next time he comes round the hill. But did he find the
lambie?" he asked, turning to Grace.
"Yes, he found it. He looked for it 'till he found it,' the story says. After wandering along a road full of danger
and painfulness, and sorrowful sights of the terrible ruin the wild beasts had wrought, he came upon the little
strange lamb, just when its heart was beginning to faint and fail. The story does not say that he punished it for
running away and giving him so much trouble, or even that he spoke some chiding words and pushed it along
in front of him with his crook, as I have sometimes seen shepherds on the road do when the sheep get footsore
and weary and unwilling to go on with the journey."
"Ay do they. They get their licks many a time when they don't deserve them," chimed in Geordie, in a pathetic
tone.
"Well, but instead of any hard words or beatings, what do you think the Shepherd did? He took the little lamb
into his own weary arms, and it lay safe and warm there, while he carried it all the way home to the fold."
"Did he though?" exclaimed Geordie, in warmest admiration. "Eh, but the lambie must surely have been right
fond of the Shepherd after that. I'm thinkin' he would know his voice better than before, and follow him right
close and canny. That's the kind o' shepherd all beasts would like, for they know fine when a body cares for
them," Geordie said, with a glowing face, as he looked up at Grace, and the "Third Primer" slipped unheeded
on the floor.
Was it a mere chance coincidence that this remark of Geordie's came at a moment when it made more easy of
introduction to Grace that part of the parable story which she was full of eagerness to tell to her first scholars?
She desired that it might prove to them not merely a pleasant tale, which had beguiled an hour that had
threatened to be a very weary one, to little Jean, at least; but that, through its homely dress, they might catch a
glimpse of its higher meaning, and be able to trace the footsteps of the Great Shepherd of souls.
"Yes, Geordie," she continued, "one would certainly imagine that the sheep would follow such a shepherd
very closely, and be very sure that his way was always best, and that he was leading them by wise safe paths,
even when they seemed thorny and toilsome; but it is not so. I can tell you of a Shepherd who not only went
through many painful dark desolate places, so that his flock might not stumble and fall when they came to
follow, but ended by laying down his life for his sheep. And yet these very sheep do not always listen to his
voice, nor follow the safe narrow paths which he has tracked out for them, through the wilderness, to the
happy fold. I think you must both have heard of this Shepherd, Geordie, and little Jean too."
"I never knew a shepherd except Gowrie's, and he lost the bonnie lambie with the black face, that used to lick
Geordie's hand," replied little Jean, with a doleful expression in her usually merry black eyes.

"Ah, but this Good Shepherd always searches for the lost sheep till he finds it, and then he carries it in his
arms all the journey through to his beautiful home among the angels, and there is joy among them over the
little found lamb. For it is the Lord Jesus Christ who calls himself the Good Shepherd, Jean, and who has told
us this story about finding the lost sheep, that we might understand the better how he came to this world to
save us from dark dangerous paths of sin that go down to death. For we have all strayed as this poor silly lamb
did, and some of us are straying yet," continued Grace; and then, glancing at Geordie's earnest face, she said,
"You have heard of the Lord Jesus Christ, who came to save us from our sins, have you not, Geordie?"
"I have heard tell o' him. But I didna just think he was so real-like as a shepherd with his sheep, or that he
would have ta'en that trouble for one," Geordie replied, with a dreamy look in his eyes; but he did not say
more.
Just then Margery knocked at the door, and intimated that the hour was expired, and little Jean again began to
show some signs of restlessness, so Grace felt regretfully that the first afternoon had come to an end, and she
had not followed any part of the programme which she had previously marked out. There was the hymn-book,
with a tune all ready to sing to one of the hymns, which Grace had practised painstakingly on the piano the
day before. But now she found that neither Jean nor Geordie could sing, so she thought it might be wise to
select something simpler than she had chosen before, and ended by singing her oldest childish favourite, "The
Happy Land." It was evidently new to the children; for their poor old deaf granny's was not a musical home.
Geordie's eyes dilated with delight as he listened, and he kept giving Jean a series of nods across the table, in
case she should by any chance miss the full enjoyment of such beautiful sounds.
A second knock from Margery, this time carrying a plateful of currant-cake which Miss Hume had sent to the
children, fairly broke up the little gathering. Grace felt with disappointment that this first class had come sadly
short of her ideal, was a complete failure, in fact, when she remembered all that she had meant to say and do,
and all the hoped-for responses on the part of the scholars.
In thinking of this afternoon long afterwards, when it lay in the clear rounded distance of the past, Grace used
to smile as she remembered her restless impatience, and compare herself to the little girl who was always
pulling up by the roots the flowers she had planted in her garden, to see how they were getting on.
When they prepared to leave the little still room, Grace handed Geordie his precious "Third Primer," which
she found lying on the floor, and as he put it into his jacket pocket, he said with a smile, "I won't bring it back
with me, I'm thinkin'. Ye'll maybe tell us some more about the Good Shepherd next time, and I can hold at the
spellin' when I'm herdin', and maybe I'll soon be able to get into the Bible itself," he added, still firm in his
belief that the only entrance lay through the spelling-book.
Grace, remembering little Jean's dislike to the exit through the dark passages, led the way to a door which
opened into a path to the garden. Jean manifested undisguised satisfaction when the dim still-room precincts
were fairly left behind, and they got into the pleasant old walled-in garden, where the yellow afternoon's sun
was lying on the opening fruit-blossom, and bringing delicious scents out of the newly-blown lilac and
hawthorn. She kept pulling Geordie's corduroys, to draw his attention to all that captivated her as they walked
along the broad gravel walk. This was certainly a much pleasanter way home than along the dim passage, and
Jean decided that the best part of the afternoon had come last. Presently Grace opened the door of one of the
greenhouses, and they stood among richer colours and sweeter scents than before. The children had been
surveying with admiring wonder the dazzling house glittering in the sun, which was making each pane sparkle
like a diamond, but they never dreamt that it would be given to them to enter it, or indeed that it had an
interior which could be reached, so entirely did it seem to belong to the region of the sun, not to the world of
thatched cottages and grey walls.

"Eh, but surely this will be something like the happy land you were singin' aboot," Geordie said at last, with a
long-drawn breath, after he had wandered about in silence for some time, revelling in the exotic delights of the
first greenhouse he had ever seen.
"Oh yes, Geordie; there will be all this, and a great deal more; things so beautiful and, glorious that our poor
minds can't even imagine what they will be like," said Grace, glowingly, feeling a thrill of pleasure to hear
that the hymn had any meaning for the boy, so desponding was she concerning her efforts. "Look here, I'll just
read to you about the pleasant place where the Good Shepherd leads his flock, after their journey on earth is
over." And leaning against an old orange-tree, Grace read to her little scholars about that wonderful multitude
"which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the
Lamb. Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple: and he that
sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall
the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall
lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." They stood
quite still for a few moments after Grace had finished reading, each thinking some new thoughts.
In the mind of little Jean, to be sure, there certainly prevailed some confusion of ideas between the happy land
of which she had been hearing, and the beautiful garden in which she stood. Indeed, to the end of her life, the
yellow glitter of the sun on the Kirklands greenhouses brought to her mind the description of that "city of pure
gold, as it were transparent glass;" and the tall tropical plants which were ranged round the shining floor were
to her the embodiments of the trees whose leaves were for the "healing of the nations."
But Geordie's thoughts were most about that Shepherd Saviour who seemed to be able to lead his flock away
from bleak, scorching places to such a blessed land as these words told of.
In spite of old Adam's approaching shadow on the gravel walk, Grace plucked a few of the rare, beautiful
roses and gave them to little Jean, whose small fat hands were eagerly stretched out to receive the prize. They
spent the remainder of their flourishing existence in a broken yellow jug on the window-sill of Granny
Baxter's cottage, and were a joy to Jean for many days. And when it was the fate of their companions still left
in their stately glass home to be gathered into Adam's barrow when their charms had past, and ignominiously
flung away, Jean's roses had a more honourable future. After they had done their duty faithfully on the
window-sill, the dead leaves were tenderly gathered and scattered in the drawers allotted to Jean in the ancient
chest, where they made a sweet scent in their embalmment for many a day.
The little party arrived at last at the farther end of the garden, where there was a door in the high, red wall
opening on a path which led to the turnpike-road. Grace turned the rusty key, and the children saw the familiar
face of their native valley again. Giving a lingering backward glance into the pleasant garden which they had
just left, they trotted away towards the dusty high-road, while Grace stood watching them till they were out of
sight.


ELSIE GRAY
ll tell you what it is, Grace; that scholar of yours is far too fine a fellow to be left to tie companionship of old
Gowrie's cattle any longer."
The speaker was a bright, breezy-looking lad in midshipman's dress, who was sauntering up and down the old
terrace at Kirklands, in company with our friend Grace. She is a year older than when we saw her last at the
garden-gate, parting with her two scholars after their first Sunday together. They have had a great many
afternoons in company since then. Grace had remained in her summer home all through the long Scotch
winter, and now autumn had come, bringing with it her brother Walter on a delightful holiday of six weeks,
after an absence of years.
Miss Hume had got so frail the previous year, that she was unfit for the return journey to her house in
Edinburgh, and the following months had only brought an increase of weakness. She now lay in her darkened
room, with, her flickering lamp of life burning slowly to. its socket, while some young lives beside her were
being kindled by glowing fires which would cause their hearts to burn long after the "glow of early thought
declines in feeling's dull decay."
The little company in the still-room had somewhat increased, four others haying been added to the two first
scholars. One of them was Elsie Gray, the forester's daughter, a pretty little girl with a sweet voice, and able to
sing a great many hymns, so that Grace had no longer to perform solos to the still-room audience, but was
accompanied by more than one voice timidly following Elsie's example, and joining in the singing. There
were three other scholars from the borders of the next parish, and a very happy party they all made together.
But it must be confessed that the warmest place in Grace's heart was reserved for the first scholar whom she
had found that chilly spring day among the pasture lands which sloped down to the little stream. Judged by an
educational standard, Geordie was certainly, with the exception of the little Jean, the most deficient of the
company, in spite of his having manfully conquered the last pages of the "Third Primer," and got at last "intil
the Bible." The other boys and girls still attended the parish school on week days, and seemed more or less
very fairly in possession of the rudiments of education. Some things, however, which they read and heard in
the little quiet room at Kirklands sank into their hearts as they had never done when they read them as the
stereotyped portion of the Bible-reading lesson amid the mingled jangle of slates and pencils and pattering
feet, with the hum of rough northern tongues, which prevailed in the parish school-room.
To Geordie even this discordant medium of education had been denied. Grace had set her heart on having him
sent to school during the past winter. She saw what a precious boon such an opportunity appeared in Geordie's
eyes when she suggested it to him. But Farmer Gowrie had to be consulted, and finding the herd-boy useful in
winter as well as during the summer months, he decided that he could not possibly spare Geordie. And as for
Granny Baxter, she could not understand what anybody could want with more learning who was, able to earn
money. So Geordie had one day lingered behind the other scholars to tell Grace that the idea of going to
school even during the winter quarter must be given up. There was always a manly reticence about the boy
ELSIE GRAY 29
which made one feel that words of sympathy would be patronising; but Grace could see what a bitter
disappointment it was, though he appeared quite unalterable in his decision that he "belonged to Gowrie,"
when Grace tried to arrange the matter by an interview with the farmer. He could only claim the boy week by
week, and the young teacher did not see the necessity for such self-denial on Geordie's part.
Then Grace's store of pocket-money had been devoted to sending little Jean to school. This arrangement had
been a source of great delight to Geordie—much more of an event to him, indeed, than to the phlegmatic little
Jean, to whom the primer did not contain such precious possibilities as it did to her brother's eyes. Grace had
arranged that she should go to a girls' school lately opened in the parish. It was the one to which Elsie Gray,
the forester's daughter, went. On her way to school she had to pass Granny Baxter's cottage, and after Jean
was installed as her fellow-scholar, Elsie used generally to call and see if the little girl was ready to start, so
that they might walk along the road together.
Elsie was a pale, fragile-looking girl, who looked as if she had grown among crowded streets, rather than
blossomed in the open valley, with its flowing river and breezy hillsides. She was a very silent child, too, with
a meek grace about all her movements; her large grey eyes shone out of her face with a luminous, dreamy
light in them, which distressed her practical, rosy-faced mother, who used to say that she did not know where
Elsie had come by "those ghaist-like eyes o' hers," and as for those washed-out cheeks, "there was no
accountin' for them neither;" and the worthy matron would go on to narrate with what abundance and
amplitude Elsie had been ministered to all her life; and yet Elsie glided about still and pale, with her large
eyes shining like precious stones, generally hungrily possessed by some book which she held in her hand. She
had an insatiable appetite for reading, and had long ago exhausted the juvenile library attached to the church,
while the few books which comprised the forester's collection had been read and re-read by her many times.
The farmer librarian, who remained half an hour after the congregation was dismissed on Sundays to dispense
books for any that might wish them, in the room behind the church, had been obliged to give Elsie entrance to
the shelves reserved for older people, after she had exhausted the youthful library. It is not to be supposed,
however, that by this admission Elsie was allowed to plunge chartless into light literature. The shelves
contained only books of the most sober kind, the lightest admixture being narratives of the persecutions of the
Waldenses and stories of the Covenanting struggles. These Elsie read and pondered with intense interest,
interweaving the scenes in her imagination with the familiar places and people round her, and living a
far-away dreamy life of her own in the forester's cozy little nest, while her active-minded, busy-fingered
mother made her cheese and butter, and reared her poultry, and was withal so very capable of performing her
own duties, that the forester sometimes ventured to think, when Mrs. Gray complained of Elsie's
"handlessness," that seeing the mistress was so well able for "her own turn," it was fortunate his little daughter
chanced to be of a more contemplative disposition.
Mrs. Gray had heard from Margery of the Sunday class which her young mistress had opened at Kirklands,
and though, as the forester's wife remarked, "Elsie had enough and to spare of schoolin' already," yet it would
only be a suitable mark of respect to the lady of Kirklands to send her there on Sunday afternoons; and so it
happened that Elsie became one of Grace's scholars, sitting in the little still-room on Sunday afternoons, her
large tender eyes answering in sympathetic flashes as the young teacher talked with the little company of
those wonderful days when the Son o Man lived upon the earth, or told them some story of the earlier times of
the world, when God's voice was heard in the beautiful garden in the cool of the day, or when he guided his
chosen people by signs and wonders.
In those days, however, the gospel tidings were not more to Elsie than many another pathetic story which she
knew, and served simply as food for her imagination, though Grace's earnest words did throw a halo round the
familiar incidents which the daily reading of a chapter in the New Testament had failed to do. Yet it was not
till some of the sharp sorrows of life had fallen upon Elsie that those words which she heard in the still-room
came with living power to her heart, and became to her a light in dark days, a joy in sorrowful times, which
nothing was able to take away from her.
ELSIE GRAY 30
And this was the little girl who used to knock gently at the door of Granny Baxter's cottage every morning as
she passed along the road to school, arrayed in her pretty grey stuff frock, and with her snowy linen tippet and
sun-bonnet. Sometimes she found little Jean's round smiling face peering against the peat-stack at the end of
the cottage awaiting her coming, for a great friendship had sprung up between these two, though they were
certainly very different in character. Elsie seemed to have a brooding protective care over the little unkempt
Jean, exercising a sort of guardianship of her in the new life at school. She would often come to her rescue
when Jean sat pouting over a blurred slate, en which she was helplessly trying to reproduce the figures on the
blackboard, or give her timely aid amid the involvements of some question in the Shorter Catechism. It was
Elsie who tied the bonnet-strings now, with more dexterous fingers than Geordie's, and performed many
similar kindly offices besides; and little Jean was already learning from the forester's daughter many habits of
tidiness which her poor, failing grandmother had not been capable of teaching her.
Sometimes, on their way from school, the girls would find Geordie perched on the paling of one of Gowrie's
fields, while the cattle grazed within the fences, watching for their coming to enliven a lonely hour with their
talk and news of school doings. His eye used to glisten with pride and pleasure as he watched the little Jean
appear, carrying her books and slate, and already bearing many traces of civilising influences. And it is not to
be wondered at if his eye rested with admiration sometimes on the sweet maiden, who was generally her
companion, and that he learnt to watch eagerly for the first glimpse of the snowy sun-bonnet along the
winding green lane which led from the girls' school to the high road. Sometimes Elsie used to bring one of her
favourite books in her plaited-cord school-bag, and then the trio would sit in a shady corner, where Geordie's
vigilant eye could still keep watch over his charge, while the little girl introduced her friends to some of the
favourite scenes of her ideal world. Elsie seemed to understand, though she had never been told it in so many
words, all about Geordie's intense desire for knowledge, and to appreciate his self-denial in remaining in his
present post. And so it happened there grew up in her mind a tender sympathy for all that he had missed, side
by side with an admiring belief in his character.
How many thoughts and ideas he surely must have, she used to think, after one of those meetings, when she
took her solitary way home, after parting with Jean, and remembered Geordie's remarks, which seemed to
throw new light on her favourite histories, and to touch with insight all that was most beautiful and true in
them. Often Elsie used to delight the unvocal brother and sister by singing one of her hymns, which for days
afterwards would echo in some "odd corner" of the lonely little herd-boy's brain. Sometimes, too, they
discussed what they had been hearing on the previous Sunday at Kirklands; and Elsie always felt more
interested in the lesson after hearing Geordie's gentle, reverent talk. And to Elsie, who had neither brother nor
sister, there was an infinite charm in Geordie's devotion to his sister Jean, and his unwearied anxiety for her
happiness. She noticed, too, the tender, chivalrous care with which he ministered to his old grandmother,
never wearying of her selfish, querulous ways, and sacrificing himself to her smallest wishes.
So it happened that a warm friendship sprang up between those three who sat side by side in Grace Campbell's
little school-room; and their daily lives had become pleasantly interwoven during these past months. To Jean,
Elsie appeared the embodiment of all that was worthy of imitation, from her snowy sun-bonnet to her gentle
voice, both seeming equally unattainable to the little girl. When Geordie returned to the village on Saturday
night, he used generally to hear from Jean some glowing narrative in Elsie's praise, to which Geordie's ears
were quite wide open, though he sat bending over his books in the "ingle neuk" of the cottage kitchen.
When her idea of a winter at school had to be abandoned, Grace gave him a few helpful class-books, and tried
to direct his efforts to learn as much as was possible; but, during the past year, her aunt's increasing weakness
and dependence on her companionship made it impossible for Grace to give the boy such practical help as she
would fain have done. But Geordie had been fighting his own battle manfully, and had made more progress
than Grace guessed.
ELSIE GRAY 31
Walter had first been telling her as they walked on the terrace together, that the day before he had found
Geordie busy with a geography book as he tended his cattle, and how pleased he had been to hear about the
new lands Walter had seen. Like Elsie, Walter felt that, in Geordie's mind, things seemed to gather a richness
and an interest with which his own impressions had not clothed them.
"You've no idea how many queer questions the fellow asked me about everything," continued Walter.
"Indeed, Grace, I couldn't help thinking how much more good Geordie would have got out of all the things
and places I've seen since I went away, than I have. And yet he's much too clever for a sailor's life. What can
we do with him, Grace? I really can't bear to think of his drudging on as a farm servant to old Gowrie, though
he seems quite contented with the prospect," and Walter turned to Grace, who glanced at her brother's kindly
face with pleasure, though not unmixed with surprise, that he should take such an interest in her
Sunday-scholar.
Walter seemed to look on Grace's class rather in a humorous light when he first heard of its existence on his
return to Kirklands. And presently he had begun to grudge that she should devote herself to it, and thus
deprive him of the pleasure of her society during the long Sunday afternoons, when they used to be together in
the old days. And, in the midst of all her joy in having her brother with her again, Grace had been feeling with
sadness that there was as yet no response in Walter's heart to those unseen, eternal things, which, in her efforts
to share them with the little company on Sunday, had become increasingly vivid to her own mind. He used
occasionally to rally her on her new fancies, which he seemed to think quite harmless and suitable for a girl,
provided they did not cross his plans and fancies.
One day, when he was on his way to fish, he had happened to meet Geordie, who was herding his cattle near
the stepping-stones. Geordie was a clever angler, and could wile more trout out of the river than most people,
and Walter had been delighted with his information as to the fishing capabilities of the Kirklands river. Since
that day they had always been friends when they chanced to meet. Walter could never see the sun-bleached
locks gleaming in the distance without crossing whatever gate or field happened to lie between, and going to
have a talk with him; so the boys had seen much more of each other than Grace knew. She had often been
obliged to leave "Walter to solitary rambles, owing to her aunt's, increasing dependence on her during her
long illness, so it happened that she felt some surprise when she saw Walter more moved than was his wont as
he eagerly discussed plans for helping Geordie.
"I'll tell you what it is, Gracie," said Walter, in his blunt way, as his quick eye detected Grace's slight surprise
that he should have so warmly espoused the cause of her Sunday-scholar. "You know I have seen Geordie a
good deal lately. We have had a lot of fishing talk, and all that, and I like the chap—he's a first-rate fellow. I
can't bear to see a fellow so much better than myself trudging away behind those beasts of Gowrie's day after
day. And, besides, Grace, the fact is I owe him something more than anything I may be able to do for him can
ever repay. It isn't every fellow, I can tell you, who would have had the courage to say to me what he did,"
stammered Walter.
"What did he say, Walter?" asked Grace, more astonished than ever. "I thought you hardly knew more of
Geordie Baxter than his name. You know he is my favourite scholar. But it is a long time since I have had a
quiet talk with him. I well remember the first conversation we had, standing on the stepping-stones near that
bend of the river where the birches grow."
"Ah, yes, I know the place. It's curious, it was just about that very spot I was going to tell you. I met him
there, one day, not long ago, and he happened to say that he had been asking Gowrie to stop sending the cattle
to that bit of pasture, because the stepping-stones made it a thoroughfare, and that bull had been getting more
savage lately, and he could not always persuade people that it was dangerous to pass near him; but Gowrie
had said it was nonsense, and so forth. Well, you see, I'm not very fond of old Gowrie, and when I saw how
meekly Geordie submitted to him, I felt provoked, and began to speak a little strongly, as we middies
ELSIE GRAY 32
sometimes do—swore, in fact. And if Geordie didn't make me feel more ashamed of myself than ever I did in
my life. You've tried your hand on me before now, Gracie, and I'm sure you'll be glad to hear—well, that I'm
going to try to lead a very different life now." Walter's voice faltered, and Grace looked at him with glistening
eyes.
After a few moments' silence, she said, "But Walter, dear, you haven't told me yet what Geordie said."
"Well, Grace, I hardly think I should like to tell you all he said. But he came, and laying his hand on my
shoulder, looked at me with those earnest eyes of his. 'You've been very kind to me, Maister Campbell,' he
began, 'and it would be ill-done no to min' ye that ye are giving a sore heart to your best Friend ye have by
takin' his dear name in vain,' and then he said a little more about it. I was so taken aback, Grace, I could hardly
believe my own ears. It must have required a lot of downright courage to speak like that; there isn't a mid in
all our crew who would have ventured to do so. And yet I dare say I'm in for something of the same kind
when I go back again to the ship. For you know I must be a 'good soldier,' Grace," added Walter, with a
gentle, fearless look in his eyes that carried Grace's thoughts back to an early scene, when she stood in the
crowded street in her nurse's hand, and watched her father's face as he rode alongside his men to his last
battle. And as she looked at Walter's face, she remembered some old words which say, "He that ruleth his
spirit is better than he that taketh a city;" and she lifted up her heart, and gave God thanks that this young
spirit, so dear and precious to her, had taken him for his Leader and Lord.
ELSIE GRAY 33
HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END.
was a lovely autumn evening. The valley of Kirklands lay flooded in the sunset glow. Its
yellowing fields were tinged with warm-crimson and purple, and the golden light shimmered on the trees and
fringed the dark fir tops. Never had her home looked more beautiful, Grace thought, when, at last, the brother
and sister turned to go indoors, after their earnest talk. She stood leaning on the old carved railing of the steps,
taking one more glance at the peaceful scene before she followed Walter into the darkening entrance-hall,
when her eye caught sight of a stumpy figure which she thought she recognised.
It was little Jean Baxter, who hurried along the elm avenue as fast as her short legs could carry her. She
looked breathless and excited, and when she came nearer Grace saw that she was tearful and dishevelled. She
hastened down the steps to meet her, wondering what childish grief could be agitating the mind of the usually
imperturbable little Jean. When she caught eight of Grace, she threw up her arms with a loud, bitter wail that
rang among the old elms, echoing through their arching branches, and startling the birds that had just gone to
roost. "Oh, Miss Cam'ell! Geordie, Geordie!--he's hurt; he's dyin'; Blackie's gotten hold o' him."
HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END. 34

It was vain to ask anything more. Jean could only repeat her wailing refrain, so taking the child's hand, Grace
quietly asked her to lead the way to where Geordie was, trying to quiet her bitter weeping by such soothing
words as she could muster in the midst of her own distress at the possibility of any serious accident having
happened to her favourite scholar. But poor little Jean's sad monotone still rang mournfully through the soft
evening air as she trotted along by Grace's side—"Geordie's dyin'; Blackie's got hold o' him."
Grace, however, managed to learn from a few incoherent words that the boy was lying, in whatever state he
might be, at the river side, near the stepping-stones. He had, that afternoon, taken the cattle, along with the
dangerous bull, to the heathery knolls, where Gowrie's careful soul grudged that any morsel of pasture should
remain unused. Geordie had always been most careful in warning unwary passers-by of their danger, for,
though fearless enough himself, he still held that Blackie was the "ill-natertest bull in all the country-side,"
and never felt easy in his mind except when he had him within the fences of the upland fields. He had once or
twice tried to tether the animal near one of the hillocks, but he saw that it made his temper more dangerous
than ever; besides, the little patches of green pasture were so scattered through the heather, and had carefully
to be scented out by discriminating noses, that to have fettered poor Blackie to one spot seemed to him a
crying injustice, uneasy as he felt at his being able to roam at large so near a thoroughfare. Geordie had never
even allowed himself the luxury of Jean's company when there were no fences to put between Blackie and
her.
But that day the harvest holidays had been given at the girls' school. There had been prizes distributed and an
examination held which lasted till evening. Elsie Gray had got several trophies of her diligence, but the great
and unexpected event of the day was that little Jean had actually got a prize. She was nearly beside herself
with ecstasy as she clutched the gay crimson and gilt volume which was presented to her, and resented that it
should even for a moment be absent from her arms to be admired by her companions. Then Geordie must hear
about this unexpected honour, must see and touch the treasure at once; and Jean galloped off with the precious
volume to the field where he was generally to be found perched on the paling, awaiting their coming. Elsie
Gray followed, eager enough, too, to show her honours to the boy-friend, whose golden opinions she dearly
loved to win. There was a pink flush on her usually pale cheek, as she glanced about in search of Geordie
when they reached the field, panting and breathless after their race. But no Geordie was visible anywhere, and
the field was quite empty and tenantless. Then Jean remembered, what she had forgotten in her excitement,
that Geordie was to be herding at the hillocks to-day, and so she started off to find him, forgetful that his
present post was forbidden ground.
The girls were not long in reaching the stepping-stones, and presently Jean was at Geordie's side, dancing
round him with wild cries of delight, as she flourished her gay prize in his rather bewildered eyes. He had
been lying with his face resting on his hands, on one of the soft knolls of turf, looking at the sunset, and
thinking of the new lands of which he had lately been hearing from Walter Campbell. He seemed so possessed
by his own thoughts and reveries that he heard no sound of coming footsteps till he looked up suddenly, and
saw little Jean by his side. He jumped up from the turf, and began to look wistfully towards the river side to
see if there was nobody else besides Jean coming to enliven a lonely hour.
Elsie had crossed the stepping-stones, and was moving towards the hillock on which he stood, with her
sun-bonnet in one hand, and her heavy armful of shining prize books in the other with the golden sun's rays
falling on her. Her dusky hair was hanging rather more loosely than usual, shaken out of its general
smoothness by her hot face. The pale face was all aglow with pleasure, and her large eyes looked radiant with
delight at the thoughts of the pleasure that little Jean's success, as well as her own, would give to Geordie. The
boy stood with his flaxen hair all gilded by the sun, looking at her with a glad light in his blue eyes. For a
moment only, and then, with a look of terror, he glanced in the opposite direction, remembering that this was
dangerous ground. Blackie had been roused from his sleepy grazing by little Jean's cry of delight, and, looking
up, his evil eye caught sight of Elsie, with her bright colours, made more dazzling by the sunset tints. With a
toss of his head, and a few wild plunges, the brute, with his head near to the ground, and his eyes fixed on his

prey, made his way towards her. Geordie shouted, "Back, Elsie; back on the stepping-stones!" but it was too
late.
Elsie lost her presence of mind, and wavered backward and forward for a moment, till it was impossible to
save herself by taking refuge on the other side of the stream, where Blackie, not knowing the advantage of
stepping-stones, would probably not have troubled himself to follow her. In an instant Geordie had flung
himself between the roused animal and Elsie. His stick still lay on the hillock, where he had been resting, so
he had no weapon of defence, and Blackie, in his rage, would not spare the faithful lad, who had spent so
many lonely hours by his side. In another moment, Geordie was lying gored and senseless on the heather.
Elsie had reached the stepping-stones, and stood there transfixed like a marble statue. Blackie might follow
her now if he had a mind to, but he had not. After a glance at Geordie, he plunged away with his heels in the
air through the heather, having an uneasy consciousness that he had lost his temper, and treated a good friend
rather roughly.
As for little Jean, she had fortunately happened to be beyond Blackie's range of observation; for it was on
Elsie that his sole gaze had been fixed, and he only vented his baulked fury on Geordie when the vision of
bright colours slipped away. Gowrie's ploughman happened to be passing near, and had been a witness of the
scene, though it was impossible for him to give timely help. Elsie Gray, he noticed, was now safe on the
stepping-stones, and Geordie lying on the heather, with all the mischief done to him that Blackie was likely to
do. But the enraged animal might attack somebody else presently, and the man thought the best service he
could render was to secure Blackie against doing further injury. Never did repentant criminal receive
handcuffs with more submission than the guilt-stricken Blackie the badge of punishment. There was a
subdued pathetic look of almost human remorse and woe in the eye of the brute, as he was led past the place
where Geordie lay low among the heather. The hands that had so often fed him and made a clean soft bed for
him at night, often stroking his great knotted neck, and never raised in unjust punishment, lying helpless and
shattered now, and the fair locks hung across his face, all dabbled with blood. Elsie was now kneeling by his
side, but he was quite unconscious of her presence, and heedless of her low wailing, as she looked wildly
round to see if nobody was coming to help Geordie, who had helped her so bravely. Little Jean had hurried
shrieking to the farm, with the news of the accident, and Mistress Gowrie presently appeared, to Elsie's
intense relief. She was a kindly woman, and felt conscience-stricken as she kneeled beside the little herd-boy;
for she knew that it was not with his will that Blackie roamed at large among those knolls. She had happened
to hear his last expostulation with her husband on the point; and this was how it had ended. But she did not
think he was dead. Elsie could hardly restrain a cry of delight when she heard the whispered word that he
lived still. How joyfully she carried water in her sun-bonnet from the flowing river, how tenderly she
sprinkled it on his face and hands, and wiped the bloodstained locks.
And then old Farmer Gowrie came and stood with his hands behind his back, and a shadow on his furrowed
face, as he gazed on his young servant with an uneasy stare. He kept restlessly moving backwards and
forwards to see whether the still motionless figure showed any sign of life, till his wife reminded him that
Granny Baxter was probably ignorant of the terrible accident which had happened to her grandson, and asked
him to go and break the news to her. Little Jean had been there before him, however; and Gowrie found the
old woman crawling helplessly along in the direction of the knolls, quite stupefied by the terrible tidings that
Jean had managed to convey to her deaf ears. The little girl seemed possessed with the idea that Miss
Campbell would be sure to be able to help Geordie in this extremity; and so she left her old granny to find her
way alone, and had hurried away in the direction of Kirklands to tell her sorrowful tale, meeting Grace, as we
know, in the elm avenue, after her eventful talk with her brother.
They were already half-way to the stepping-stones, when Grace remembered—feeling it unaccountable that,
even in her anxiety, she should have forgotten for an instant—that Walter must know what had happened to
Geordie—Geordie, to whom he owed so much. She felt that she could not leave the little weeping girl to go

on her way alone; but just as she was standing hesitating what it might be best to do, she met one of the
dwellers in the valley, who promised to go at once and convey a message to her brother, and then she and Jean
hurried on towards the fatal pasture lands. Before they crossed the stepping-stones which led to the knolls,
Grace could see a little group bending over a spot in the heather; but no sound reached them through the calm
evening air, except the rippling of the sunset-tinted river, which rolled between. And so Geordie was lying
there gored, maimed, perhaps dying, as Jean persisted in saying. Grace felt her heart sink with fear, lest the
sorrowful refrain should be true, as she crept silently near to the place where the little company was gathered.
But Geordie was not dead.
"Here comes Miss Campbell," somebody said, and then the circle opened up, and Grace caught a glimpse of
her scholar lying very quietly among the heather with his blue eye turned gladly to welcome his friend.
"It was only a faint, after all,—and some bruises that will soon heal," Mistress Gowrie said, in a tone of
relieved anxiety, as she rose from the turf where she had been kneeling to make way for Grace, who felt an
intense relief as she bent smilingly over him, and talked gently of the danger past, with her heart full of
thankfulness.
When little Jean saw the happy aspect of matters, her grief gave place to the wildest ecstasy of delight.
Throwing herself down beside her brother, she shouted gleefully, "Oh, Geordie, Geordie, ye're no dyin' after
all, ye're all right. I'll never greet again all the days o' my life," was the rash promise which she made in her
joy, remembering Geordie's dislike to tears. Presently her thoughts reverted to her treasure, which, in her
grief, had been forgotten. It had been dropped on the knoll when the accident happened, and Jean now
bounded off gleefully in search of it.
A doctor had been sent for soon after the accident, but Geordie seemed so well that old Gowrie already began
to regret that they had been in such haste in sending to fetch him. Presently Mistress Gowrie left the knolls
and returned to her usual evening duties, which she felt were put sadly in arrear owing to this outbreak of
Blackie's, and feeling truly thankful that it had ended so fortunately. She invited old Granny Baxter to have a
cup of tea with her at the farm, which was a very great mark of graciousness on the part of "the mistress," and
extremely gratifying to the old woman, to whom attentions of the kind came rarely.
It had been arranged, also, by the farmer's wife that Geordie should be moved into the "best bedroom" before
the doctor came, and Granny Baxter was filled with pride when she was shown the woodruff-scented
chamber, with its dark shining floor, and among other impressive decorations from the farmyard, a waving
canopy of peacock feathers above the ancient chimney-piece, where Geordie was to sleep among snowy
sheets that night. But each time that they proposed he should be carried there from his rough bed among the
heather, Geordie pled rather wistfully, "Just wait a wee while. I'm right comfortable here among the heather,"
and once he added with a sad smile as he glanced at the farmer's wife, "But I'll no be able to supper the beasts
the night, Mistress Gowrie. Maybe Sandy will look to them. Puir Blackie! give him a good supper; he didn't
mean any ill."
Only Elsie Gray, of all the original group, still sat near Geordie, where she could watch every movement,
though she could not be seen by him. She kept gazing at him with unutterable anguish in her eyes, and only
she detected the sharp spasms that occasionally crossed his face, and felt his frame quiver with pain which he
tried to conceal.
"Miss Campbell," she whispered to Grace who was seated near her, "he's very sore hurt, I'm sure of it. Oh,
will the doctor no come soon!" and when Grace looked into Geordie's face she began to share Elsie's fears.
Presently Jean came bounding back in delight with her recovered treasure to lay it in Geordie's hands. He
looked at the gaily-bound book with his most pleased smile, and then glancing at Jean proudly, he said, "Eh,

Jean, but ye'll be learnin' to be a grand scholar. I'm right glad ye have got to the school."
Then the eager little girl must needs have the book in her own hands again, to search among the leaves for the
illustrations which were interspersed, so that Geordie might be introduced to all the beauties of this wonderful
volume. Geordie kept looking at her as she turned the leaves with a somewhat pitiful gaze, and presently he
said in a low tone, "Jean, come a little nearer. I want to speak to ye, Jeanie. Do ye ken I'm maybe goin' til the
grand school the good Maister keeps waitin' for us in the heavenly land? And I'll be learnin' a deal o' things
there that we canna learn down here," he added, with a smile; and then he paused.
Jean looked up from her boot with bewildered eyes as she listened to Geordie's words; a grave expression
came into her face, but the shadow was only caused by her not understanding what he meant, for she knew
that Geordie occasionally went beyond her depth.
"I'll no ever herd Gowrie's cows again, Jean, or wait at the fences for Elsie and you. I'm dyin' Jeanie," he
added in a hoarse whisper, as he gazed sorrowfully at the little girl.
There was no mistaking the meaning of these words, and little Jean, dropping her precious book, burst into
loud sobbing, as she flung herself on Geordie.
Grace had been watching the boy with a sinking heart, and a great fear began to take possession of her that
what he said might be true, as a terrible spasm of agony crossed his face, and a groan of pain escaped him.
She looked anxiously to see if there was any sign of the doctor coming, and taking little Jean aside, she told
her that if she loved Geordie she must be brave and quiet, even though he was so very ill, as he seemed to
think. Then she tried to speak some soothing words of comfort, but little Jean wailed out with a fresh burst of
sorrow:
"Oh, Miss Cam'ell, why didn't God keep him from Blackie, if he loves him as ye say? Ye mind how ye read to
us in the Bible about him saving the herd-laddie out o' the jaws o' the bear; oh, but, I think, he might have
taken care of our Geordie;" and poor little Jean would not be comforted.
"Where's granny?" Geordie had whispered, and Elsie rose from her post at Geordie's head and flitted away
like a little noiseless ghost to find the old woman. She met her at the farm, where, having finished her cup of
tea, she was being shown some of Mistress Gowrie's feathered favourites in the farmyard.
"Mistress Gowrie, he's not better, as ye think; he says he's dyin', and wants to see granny," Elsie said, with
quivering lips, as she reached them.
"Dying, child, nonsense! what do you mean?" said the farmer's wife, looking at Elsie to see if she was not
dreaming. But Elsie looked terribly wide-awake and sorrow-stricken, and Mistress Gowrie went off in search
of her husband.
Then Granny Baxter began to perceive that there was something wrong, and presently Elsie succeeded in
making her understand, and began to guide her slow steps to where her grandson still lay. Oh, how slow they
were, Elsie thought, as she glanced along the straight field path still to be crossed before they reached the
knolls, and thought of what might be going on there. But had not Geordie wanted to see his grandmother, and
surely she might endure for him who had done so much for her? So the little girl kept close by the old
woman's side, who leant her wrinkled hand on Elsie's shoulder, while, with the help of her staff in the other,
she hobbled along, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, groaning and muttering about this terrible blow that
seemed likely to fall upon her.

"Granny, granny, I've been wearyin' for you," said Geordie, holding out both his hands, when at last Elsie's
patience had guided the old woman to the spot. "Oh, but I'm no able to make her hear. Nae words o' mine can
travel to her ear, and I had much to say to her," Geordie cried, with a suppressed sob, as some terrible internal
pain seemed to seize him.
The old woman had seated herself by his side, and her withered fingers wandered trembling among his hair, as
she moaned helplessly, "Oh, laddie, laddie, what's this that's come upon us?"
Suddenly, Geordie seemed to remember something, and, smiling brightly, he feebly raised his hand to his
jacket-pocket, and drew out the little chamois bag, containing the slowly-gathered store of money with which
he intended to buy the ear-trumpet for his poor deaf granny.
"I gathered the last sixpence yestreen, for holding the minister's horse," he said, as he laid the bag in her hand,
"It's to buy a thing that makes deaf folk hear, granny. But she can't understand me, Miss Cam'ell," he
murmured, sadly, as he looked at Grace, who was leaning over him; "and, oh, I would have liked well to tell
her before I go away about the Good Shepherd that you first told me about, Miss Cam'ell. I dinna think she
understands right what a Friend he can be to a body; and I've always been waitin' till I got that horn for makin
her hear to tell her all about him, for it's no a thing that a body wad just like to roar at the tap o' their voice.
But you'll maybe speak to her some of the things ye spak' to us, Miss Cam'ell. Ye'll have one less at the school
now, ye see," he added, smiling sadly; and then turning with a look of tender pity on his grandmother, who
watched him with wistful eyes, as if she knew that his lips were moving for her, he said, "Oh, tell her to listen
to his voice, and let the sound into her heart. He was aye able to mak' deaf folk hear, wasn't he, Miss
Cam'ell?" said Geordie, with a bright smile as he turned to his young teacher.
They had now got ready a sort of litter, on which they meant to carry him to the farm; for Mistress Gowrie felt
convinced that only more comfortable surroundings and a visit from the doctor was necessary for his complete
recovery, and was resolved that no care of nursing on her part should be wanting to atone for any past
indifference to the welfare of the little herd-boy with which she might reproach herself.
Geordie, seeing her anxiety to perform this deed of kindness, at last consented that they should take him from
his lowly heather couch, and carry him to all the comforts of the best bedroom at Gowrie. But each time they
tried to lift him the boy got so deathly pale, and seemed to suffer so intensely, that even Mistress Gowrie was
obliged to acknowledge that it might be best to wait till the doctor came. Indeed, it soon became evident to all
that Blackie's blows had touched some vital part, and Geordie's herding days were done.
He lay for a little while with closed eyes, seeming thankful to be undisturbed, and a silence fell on the group
round him, not broken when Walter Campbell joined it; for a glance from Grace, and a look at Geordie's face,
told him all. He stood there, in the freshness and strength of his youth, looking at the ebbing life of the boy
whom he felt then as if he would have died to save. How he longed to tell him of all the blessing his words
had brought to his soul, of the life-long gratitude which must surround his memory; but it was too late. Walter
felt that he could not disturb the passing soul with anything so personal; but in the land where Geordie was
going they would meet one day; and he would keep his thanks till then.
The silence had not been broken for several minutes. Poor little Jean had been trying to keep very brave and
quiet, since Grace explained to her how much her noisy grief would vex Geordie. But Elsie, who had returned
to her post at Geordie's head, and was seated silently there, now gave a smothered sob, which seemed to fall
on Geordie's ear. He opened his blue eyes, and looking wistfully about, said in a faint whisper, "Elsie, I didna
know ye was here. I saw you on the stepping-stones just when I was meetin' Blackie, but I thought you had
been away home before now; it surely must be far on in the gloamin'. Eh, Elsie, but I'll no be able to keep the

tryst for the bramble gatherin' wi' you," he said, in a mournful tone, turning towards her, and referring to a
long-planned holiday, when they were to go together to search for brambles for Mistress Gowrie and the
forester's wife's joint jam making. "But, Elsie, speak to me," he continued, feebly, holding out his hand, for he
could not see her face where she sat, "We'll keep our tryst in the bonnie land beside the green pastures and the
still waters ye often read to me about. Will we no', Elsie?"
"Oh, Geordie, I can't bear it. Why did you no let Blackie get hold o' me? Oh, Geordie, Geordie!" Elsie sobbed,
as she crept round within sight of the boy, and knelt beside him with clasped hands and lines of agony on her
face, that made the fair child look like a suffering woman.
Geordie turned his dying eyes upon her with a look of mingled love and sorrow, which none who saw it could
ever forget; and stretching out both his hands, he said, "Oh, Elsie, will ye no give me one kiss afore I dee?"
And Elsie lifted up her fair face, which had been covered with her hands, and bending down, kissed the dying
lips. Then, with a look of unutterable gladness and contentment, Geordie closed his eyes as if he was going to.
sleep.
Walter Campbell turned away for a moment, for, as he afterwards told one of his shipmates, "It was more than
a fellow could stand, and he didn't mind confessing that he hadn't stood it." Presently he hurriedly joined the
little group again, determined that Geordie must yet hear before he went away how his faithful words had,
through God's grace burnt themselves into a wayward heart, and set a dead soul on fire. But he found that
another Voice was falling on Geordie's ear, which was closed to all earthly sounds now; even that greeting to
faithful ones which bids them enter into the joy of their Lord.
And so the poor bruised body did lie in Mistress Gowrie's woodruff-scented best bedroom, and among her
snowy linen, that night after all, but Geordie was not there; his home was henceforth in the many mansions of
the Father's house.

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME
ow, children, here we are at Kirklands, at last," said a lady with a pleasant voice, to an
eager-looking group of boys and girls, who were clustering round her, in a large open travelling carriage,
which had just drawn up in front of an old gateway, and waited for admittance.
"Kirklands at last," was re-echoed among the little party. The two boys seated beside the coachman glanced
round at the occupants of the inside seats, feeling sure that, their higher position secured them superior
information, and shouted in chorus, "Mamma, mamma, Kirklands at last."
"As if we didn't know that as well as you. do," shouted back Willie, a curly-headed little fellow, seated beside
his mother, who had a secret hankering after the higher place of his elder brothers, along with a desire to
prove to them that their position was in no way superior to his own.
AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME 41

The old gates closed behind them, and the carriage bowled swiftly along the smooth avenue, with its
branching elms overhead. The pleasant vistas of green, on all sides, were very grateful to the eyes of the
young travellers, wearied with miles of a white dusty turnpike-road, on a hot July afternoon. They looked with
delighted gaze on the new fair scene, and thought what happy evenings they would have among those green
glades during the long summer days.
But there was one of the party to whom this scene was not new, but old and familiar, written over with many
memories, some well-nigh overlaid in the turmoil of life, but which flickered up with new vividness as she
looked on the calm sunlighted scene, and thought of other days. The years had brought many changes to her,
and it was with mingled feelings that she gazed on this unchanged spot. Each grey-lichened rock stood out
from the mossy floor with a face that was familiar; all the little winding woodland paths, she knew where they
led to, and could take the children to many a nook where wild flowers and delicate green ferns still loved to
grow, at they did long ago when she used to gather them in these woods.
"Seventeen years ago! is it possible?" she murmured, as she leaned back in a corner of the carriage, and
thought of the many leaves in the book of her life which had been folded-down since she took farewell of
these green glades in her girlish days. And as she sits, quietly thinking, while the little group round her are
making the green aisles resound with their merry laughter, we fancy, as we glance at her face, that it is one we
have seen before in this valley. The "stealthy day by day" has certainly done its work; the outline of Grace's
cheek is sharper than it used to be, and the eager, speaking eyes have lost somewhat of their fire, but there is a
calm gladness in their gaze as she glances at the joyous faces round her, that speaks of lessons learnt, and
sorrows past, during chequered days which have lain between the autumn evening, when we saw her last, and
this July afternoon, when she is coming with her "two bands" to the home of her girlhood.
Miss Hume, Grace's aunt, had passed away from this world during that autumn seventeen years ago, and
Grace had never revisited Kirklands since. Walter, to whom it belonged, was still a naval officer. His home on
the sea had still more fascination for him than the inland beauties of Kirklands, which had been left to
strangers during the intervening years.
For some time past it had stood empty and tenantless, and Walter had suggested that his sister, who had just
come from a long sojourn abroad, should, with her children, take up her abode there. Her husband, Colonel
Foster, was still on foreign service; and Grace, who longed to see the old home after all her wanderings, had
readily agreed to go with her little flock and introduce them to the spot which was their dreamland of
romance, the historic ground of all the pleasantest stories in their mother's mental library, often ransacked for
their benefit.
Mrs. Foster's servants were already at Kirklands, making preparations for the arrival. The old rooms were
being opened up once again, and shafts of golden sunlight streamed through the long-darkened windows, on
the dark-panelled walls, as if to herald joyously the good news that "life and thought" were coming back to the
deserted house.
As the carriage followed the windings of the avenue, the grey gables of the old mansion began to peep
through the green boughs, their first appearance being announced by a jubilant chorus from the elder boys on
the box, which made little Willie feel painfully that his range of vision was far from satisfactory. Presently,
however, the timeworn walls could be seen by all the party, as the carriage wheeled round the old terrace, and
the travellers reached the end of their journey. Then eager feet began to trot up and down the grass-grown
steps, and climb on the old carved railing, where the griffins fascinated little Grace by their stony stare, as
they used to do her mother years ago. The long-silent corridors began to resound with joyous laughter, as the
merry party rambled through the old rooms, wishing to identify each place with historical recollections,
founded on their mother's and Uncle Walter's stories. And was that really the tree that Uncle Walter made
believe to be the rigging of a ship, and one day fell from one of its highest boughs? And where used they to

keep their rabbits, and in what room did they learn their lessons? These, and such questions, were generally
asked in chorus, to which their mother had to endeavour to reply, as she wandered among the familiar rooms
with her merry boys and girls.
"Mamma, do you know what I should like to see best of all? Two things, mamma," whispered little Grace, as
she caught hold of her mother's dress.
"And what would my little girl like to see —the toys mamma used to play with when she was a little girl like
Gracie? I believe I've carried the key of the chest where they lie buried about with me all these years;" and
Mrs. Foster began to look in the little basket she held in her hand for a shining bunch of keys.
"It wasn't the toys I meant, though I should like to see them very much," replied the little girl, who was more
timid and gentle than her brothers and sisters, and generally required more encouragement to unburden her
small mind, "it is the room where you taught Geordie that I want to see—and Geordie's grave among the
heather."
Some quick ears had caught a name that seemed to be a household word, and louder voices said, as the boy's
clustered round their mother, "Oh yes, mamma, do show us where you taught Geordie and little Jean."
So Grace led the way through the dim passages that had once frightened little Jean, and whose gloom now
made the small Grace cling close to her mother's side. The still-room was dark and unopened, for the servants
had not thought it necessary to include it in their preparations. Grace went to the window and undid the
fastenings, and the yellow afternoon sun streamed on the dusty wooden bench where Geordie, and Jean, and
Elsie used to sit.
The merry voices were hushed for a moment, and the children looked in awed silence into the little room, as if
it had been a shrine.
After they had gazed long and silently, and their mother went to fasten the window again, she said, "Children,
we will come here and read God's Word on Sunday afternoons, as the little company you know about used to
do long ago; and I hope you will all listen to the Good Shepherd's voice, and follow it as Geordie did;" and
presently the children trooped quietly away along the dark vaulted passages.
There was no faithful Margery now to be trusted with everything, and able to put things straight in the
twinkling of an eye, as her young mistress used to declare she alone was capable of doing, so Mrs. Foster had
some unpacking and arranging preliminaries to superintend before she could join her eager little party out of
doors. But when tea was over, and the sun had begun to scatter its orange and crimson tints over the Kirklands
valley, Grace thought she would like to take a stroll among some familiar places before the darkness came.
After lingering on the old terrace for a little, she gathered her boys and girls round her, and said she was going
to take them across the park. She wanted to visit a place she remembered well, a pleasant angle of a rising
glade of birches, where she once stood mourning over the traces of an uprooted cottage. But Grace knew that
another home had grown on the ruins of the former dwelling, and to it she bent her steps now, for there was
one of its inmates whom she longed to see. There was something of the mingled feeling of interest and
romance with which her children wore viewing these now yet familiar scenes, in Grace's desire to look on a
face she had not seen for many years. Its image would rise before her, chubby, smiling, and childlike, as of
old; and then she remembered the evening when she had first seen it tear-stained and sad, as she crossed this
path with the little fat hand in hers, as her own Grace's was now.
But Joan had not shed many tears since then. There was no happier home in all the valley than the white
cottage, over which the birch-trees lovingly stretched their delicate fringes, her husband, the village carrier,

used to think when he came within sight of it, after his day's journey was over, his parcels all delivered, and
his horses "suppered" for the night. Generally his bright-looking wife was hovering near the door, waiting his
coming with a little group round her as merry as the one that was now making the woods of Kirklands ring
with their light-hearted laughter.
Grace had not told the children that she meant to take them to see little Jean that evening. She wanted first to
go alone to the cottage and see her quietly there, for she had many things to hear and ask. Still, Grace had not
been altogether a stranger to the home life there. Sometimes a letter, written and addressed with laborious
carefulness, had followed her to remote foreign stations, and brought pleasant memories of dewy heather and
fragrant birches as she read it among waving oleanders and palms. During all those years Grace had watched
over Jean's welfare, and many things in her pretty home told of her thoughtful remembrance of Geordie's
sister.


The arrival of the family at Kirklands had taken place a few days earlier than was intended, so Jean had not
happened to hear the news, and was all unconscious of the pleasure in store for her. How often she had longed
to see the "young leddy of Kirklands," as she still called her, how many times she said to her husband that she
would be sure to know her anywhere, though it was so many years since she had looked into her face. But
now, as Jean sat matron-like with her sewing, in front of her cottage, while her children played near, she
wondered what "strange lady" could be coming along the path. She called her straying little ones to her, in
case they should be in the way, but she noticed that the stranger did not seem to think so, for she had just
stopped kindly to stroke one little flaxen head, and Jean, with a mother's pride, felt grateful that "her bairn
should be respeckit among the rest." But when the lady, still holding the little boy's hand, began to climb the
mossy bank, and came towards her, Jean thought she had surely seen that face before. Though not till Grace
had smiled, and said, holding out her hand, "Jean, is it possible you do not know me?" did she recognise her
old teacher.
"Oh, Miss Cam'ell, Miss Cam'ell!" she said, with a cry of delight as she dropped her mending and rose to meet
her. "Is it really yourself? I canna believe my verra eyes."
And when Grace gazed questioningly into the serene, beaming face of the little matron, she saw it had kept all
that was best of its childish lineaments, and felt with thankful gladness that Geordie's Shepherd had not
forgotten little Jean. Meanwhile the little loitering party came along the road, and seeing their mother engaged
in conversation beside the pretty cottage door, they were eager to know who of all the old friends she was
talking to. Willie was the first to clamber up the mossy bank and reach the cottage. The others were following,
when he joined them with an expression of mingled interest and disappointment on his face.
"I say Walter—Grace,—can you guess who mamma is speaking to? Well, it's Geordie's sister,—little Jean."
Then they all crept shyly near their mother while she talked at the cottage door, glancing with interest at the
inmate. But when little Grace could find an opportunity she whispered in a tone of disappointment, "Oh,
mamma, is it really true what Willie says?" and then she added with a sigh, when Willie's news had been
confirmed, "Oh, I'm so sorry; I do wish she could have stayed a little girl."
Her mother smiled at the childish idea; but she presently remembered that it was as the little herd-boy
Geordie's image still lived in her memory, though nearly twenty summers had come and gone since he entered
on that life in which earthly days and years are merged into eternity, where the old and feeble renew their
strength, and the young grow wiser than the wisest hero.
Grace's boys and girls had all to be introduced by name to the smiling little matron, whose eye rested on them
more or less appreciatively, as she recognised a likeness to their mother or their Uncle Walter.
Presently Grace turned to the little group, and said softly, "Children, would you like to come to the knolls of
heather on the other side of the hill? I am going there now."
"Oh yes, mamma, I want to go," chimed an eager though subdued chorus of voices; and then the childish feet
followed the two mothers as they wandered slowly through the birch trees and crossed the path which led to
the stepping-stones. The water still splashed and gurgled noisily round them, and the knolls of heather
stretched with unchanged contour on the other side. Beyond rose the white gables and thatched roof of the old
farm of Gowrie; but the former master and mistress were gone now; and the young farmer, who had taken the
lease, chafed considerably that he had not been able to include the bit of heathery pasture lands in the fields,
seeing it had been previously secured by another tenant. It was the only piece of land owned by Grace in the
valley, and through all these years of absence she had jealously guarded any encroachment upon her territory.
Old Gowrie had, at her earnest request, relinquished his right to that portion of his domain in her favour, for
he ceased to wish to make it one of his economies to have his cattle grazing there.

So it happened that though the pastoral valley had considerably changed its face, and had much of its
ruggedness smoothed away in the course of years, this stretch of heather remained unreclaimed. It was still a
thoroughfare, but a very safe one now, for its only dwelling was a grave.
On the day after Geordie's death Grace had gone to see the last resting-place destined for him in the little
village churchyard. It was a dreary patch of ground which looked as if the suns ray's never penetrated through
its high walls on the graves below. Crumbling grey-lichened headstones peeped dismally from among the
long dank grass, and the little paths were overgrown with weeds. Everywhere there were traces of unloving
carelessness of the dead. And though Grace knew full well that the silent sleepers below little heeded this
selfish forgetfulness, these surroundings sent a chill to her heart. She thought she should like all that was left
here of her boy-friend to lie in pleasanter places. Far better he should rest underneath the heathery sod among
the pleasant breezy knolls, consecrated by many a heavenward thought of the lonely little herd-boy, and by
faithful words spoken in an accepted time to a wayward brother's heart. So Grace made her suit to the old
farmer at a time when his heart was softened, and he was not unwilling to part with a spot written over with a
stinging memory. Miss Hume, without even consulting Mr. Graham, had agreed to the transfer of the land;
and so it happened that Grace, like the patriarch long ago, a stranger and sojourner in the land, held as a
possession a burying-place.
The bright summer day had reached its dying hour when the little group stood on the bank of the river. The
yellow sunlight was merging into deep orange and crimson, tinging with a wonderful variety of tints the lower
landscape. The rippling water looked as if a sudden cross current of red wine had come flowing into it, and the
little hillocks beyond, golden with gorse, were steeped in the mellow light.
The children followed their mother and Jean, with awed faces and hushed voices, along the little gleaming
sheep-walk, fringed by sweet wild thyme and dog violets, with tendrils of deerhorn moss flinging their arms
across the path. At length they came on a little marble slab, by the side of one of the knolls. The last golden
shafts of sunlight were stealing over its memorial words, and the young eyes read in silence:—
IN MEMORY OF
GEORDIE BAXTER,
Who went to the Fold above on the

7th of August, 185—.
"The Lord is my Shepherd;

I shall not want."
Presently, the silent group heard footsteps behind, and when Grace glanced round she saw a woman, with two
little boys by her side, coming along the little path towards the headstone. She stopped suddenly when she
saw the strangers, evidently surprised by the unusual presence of visitors in that unfrequented spot, and,
turning down another path, went away in the opposite direction. "Who is that, Jean?" asked Mrs. Foster;
"surely I have seen the face before."
"Dear heart, do ye not know her? It's Elsie Gray. We dinna think, John and me, that her bonnie face is much
changed; but then we see it every day," Jean replied, looking fondly after the retreating figure.
"Ah, is it really Elsie? I was just going to ask about her, Jean. But who are those children with her? I thought
you told me in one of your letters that she lived quite alone?" asked Grace, stooping down to pluck a bluebell
from Geordie's grave, instead of hurrying after this old friend, as the little Grace expected her mother to do.

Then the little matron went on to narrate how Elsie's home was still the forester's pretty cottage, though her
father and mother were both dead. She had never been married, which Jean remarked was a great pity, and
hinted that a good many other people were of her opinion. But how the parish of Kirklands could ever have
got on without her if she had gone away, or what life would be if she had not Elsie to go to in every joy and
sorrow, Jean could not imagine, as she said she frequently remarked to "her John." Nobody's hands seemed to
be fuller of helpful work, and nobody did it more cheerily, than Elsie Gray.
Then Jean explained that the two little boys were orphans whom she had taken to her comfortable home; and
"it wasn't the first pair o' laddies she had made good for something," Jean added, admiringly.
"Oh, mamma, don't you want to speak to her? She has such a nice, beautiful face. Do let me run after her, and
ask her to stop for a minute," said little Grace, eagerly.
Mrs. Foster glanced musingly across the knolls at Elsie's slender figure, as she sauntered peacefully home
with her charge, and then she said, "No, my dear, we shall not trouble Elsie to-night; but I shall take you with
me to see her in her own home to-morrow, if you wish it. I shall be going there."
The cold, grey light was beginning to steal over the woods of Kirklands, and the rosy tints that still hovered
about the knolls would soon give place to the gloom of night, so Grace gathered her little party, and turned her
steps towards the river.
The merry voices, hushed for a time, began again to resound through the still evening air, and the children
went hurrying on with Jean, who had told them she must be going home to see after the milking of her cows,
and cordially responded to their wish to join her at the process.
So Grace had been following slowly, and when she crossed the stepping-stones, she looked lingeringly back,
for, with the sound of the rippling water had come the remembered echoes of Geordie's voice as she heard it
first. Then she called to mind the chilly spring day when she had started on the search, pronounced so
hopeless by old Adam the gardener, and how gleefully she hailed the unexpected appearance of the little
herd-boy. She smiled as she remembered the childish eagerness that made her fear that he would not appear at
Kirklands, as he had promised, and his rather reproachful reply that he "Aye keepit his trysts." And then there
rose mingled memories of those trysts, which be had so faithfully kept in the little still-room, of her own
childish incapacity for the work she had so longed to do, and of the sense of failure that hung over it so long.
And as she turned to follow her merry boys, who were clambering up the mossy bank, where the silvery bark
of the old birch-trees were still streaked with rosy sunset hues, she felt how much she had learnt from the
tender, earnest heart of Geordie.
"And comforted, she praised the grace

Which him had led to be,
An early seeker of that Face
Which he should early see."

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Geordie&#39;s TrystA Tale of Scottish Life by Rae, Mrs. Milne

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Geordie&#39;s TrystA Tale of Scottish Life by Rae, Mrs. Milne

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GEORDIE'S TRYST

A TALE OF SCOTTISH LIFE.

[Attributed to Mrs. Milne Rae]

[Attributed to Mrs. Milne Rae] 2

"Lord, bless and pity us,

"Hold back, or Blackie will be at ye."

THE FIRST SCHOLARS

THE FIRST SCHOLARS 20

THE FIRST SCHOLARS 21

THE FIRST SCHOLARS 22

THE FIRST SCHOLARS 23

THE FIRST SCHOLARS 24

THE FIRST SCHOLARS 25

THE FIRST SCHOLARS 26

THE FIRST SCHOLARS 27

THE FIRST SCHOLARS 28

HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END.

HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END. 34

HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END. 35

HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END. 36

HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END. 37

HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END. 38

HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END. 39

HOW GEORDIE'S HERDING CAME TO AN END. 40

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME 41

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME 42

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME 43

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME 44

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME 45

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME 46

Who went to the Fold above on the

"The Lord is my Shepherd;

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME 47

"And comforted, she praised the grace

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW NAME 48

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Geordie's TrystA Tale of Scottish Life by Rae, Mrs. Milne

Geordie's TrystA Tale of Scottish Life by Rae, Mrs. Milne

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